The Long Shadow
by butterfly52
Summary: Ten years after Rosslyn, Josh's old injury develops a serious complication as he and Donna try to start their family, and President Santos faces a tough re-election bid. Meanwhile, the imprisoned accomplice to the shootings gains media attention with news of a religious conversion, stirring up heated emotions in all the survivors.
1. Chapter 1

**Hello! I got inspired to take a crack at a West Wing fic. This will be a longer story, taking place a few years into the Santos Administration. This first chapter is something of a prologue (future chapters might not be quite so long).**

 **A few things-a lot of the medical stuff is pretty much entirely made up to serve the plot as I imagined it. I tried to use realistic language but don't look too closely for scientific accuracy. Also, I've rated this "T" because I don't think anything I wrote it terrible graphic, but this intro chapter does mention sex a bit (I don't think any more than would be allowed on Network TV; I was going for the tone to match the actual show as much as possible). If anyone thinks "M" would be more appropriate, let me know and I'll consider it; I would hate to offend anyone.**

 **Enjoy!**

 _January 2010._

Donna took another discreet but ultimately unnecessary peak at her planner; she knew today was the last of the three she had diligently marked with a tiny letter "o". Late meetings about final prep for the State of the Union had kept Josh in the West Wing until one and two in the morning the last two nights, but today she made him promise to be ready to leave with her by six. Very capable people were handling what was shaping up to be an incredible speech for the president; Josh could spend this evening with his wife.

She was still in her grand East Wing office half-heartedly replying to some low priority emails by 6:45 when he appeared in the doorway looking contrite.

"You're late, Joshua," she said without looking up at him.

"We got our telling off from State about the language on Kazakhstan," Josh replied.

"It's ok," Donna replied, starting to pick up her things; she decided almost instantly that it wasn't worth arguing over. Forty-five minutes wasn't too bad, and an actual fight could wreck the evening and mean waiting yet another month. This was too important to fight over forty-five minutes. So she smiled at him, kissed him cheerfully and walked out the building hand in hand with him.

A few hours later, Josh sat at the kitchen table across from Donna and poured himself a third glass of wine. He'd finished his food and felt her give him a disapproving look.

"What?" he asked.

"Please don't get drunk," she said. He took a long sip of the expensive Cabernet and let out a frustrated sigh.

"Here it comes," he muttered.

"Excuse me?"

"I have a job to do, right?" he replied. "Reminding me not to get too drunk to get it up? You sure know how to make a guy feel good, Donna."

"It's the last day," she said quietly. "I'm not trying to make you feel bad, but we need to take this seriously."

"I do take it seriously!" Josh snapped. "I'm just not in love with the whole appointment sex thing and you know it."

"Appointment sex?" Donna raised her voice a bit. "Grow up."

Josh stood up silently and started clearing the dishes. He avoided looking at Donna because he knew she was right; he just wasn't ready to admit it yet. He petulantly made as much noise as possible as he carried the dishes over the sink and started filling it.

Donna was determined not to rise to it; she was extremely annoyed with him right now, but her agenda still came first. So she took a deep breath and said, perfectly calmly, "I'll be in the bedroom when you're finished with that."

"Barely domesticated" was a phrase Donna liked to mockingly use to describe Josh Lyman to her old college girlfriends and he lived up to it that night. It took him nearly a half an hour to finish washing the dishes of a single, very simply prepared meal. But that was plenty of time for him to thoroughly feel like a fool.

This was important to him; he often struggled to be able to articulate just how important it was to him. But he hated the idea that his physical relationship with Donna was quickly turning into a clinical and businesslike thing. He couldn't stand to view her like that. In his mind, she was a queen who deserved to be properly romanced every single time. A queen who deserved what she so desperately longed for, that he hadn't managed to be able to give her after months of trying.

He washed the smell of dishwater from his lower arms and walked slowly towards the bedroom, hoping he hadn't made her so mad that she wouldn't be in the mood anymore.

To his relief and delight, she was sitting cross-legged on the edge of their bed wearing nothing but the amorous expression on her face.

"Just because it's by appointment doesn't mean it can't be fun," she said.

"I love you Donnatella Moss-Lyman," he said and started towards her.

* * *

"JOSH!"

Donna found herself in a state of panic. Josh had suddenly, right in the middle of the act, become very short of breath, and now was struggling to hold himself up in a sitting position gasping for air. She anxiously pulled a tangled bedsheet free of his chest and abdomen but realized almost right away that wasn't what was causing the problem. Her stomach twisted itself into a knot as she thought of what was probably happening.

"Donna," he panted breathlessly. "I'm sorry, I, I," he couldn't finish before a wave of nearly uncontrollable coughing set in. Donna tried to hold him steady until he caught some some of his breath, but the panting continued. "I ca- can't breathe."

"It's ok," she said quickly, reaching for the phone. "I'm going to call 9-1-1."

"No!" he snapped between labored gasps. "Please, don't."

Donna wanted to smack some sense into him. She didn't want to say this and panic him, but she was sure it was a heart attack. But she looked at his face and could tell immediately that he was already panicking.

It wasn't just the fear of this situation; it was that terrible spectre from the past that could never quite leave her Josh alone. It was Rosslyn. The thought of another ambulance ride to most likely the same exact hospital, with all those same horrible sights and sounds and smells was too much. It terrified him. It would send him right back to that night. Josh had made wonderful progress over the years, but living with him made her really appreciate that PTSD wasn't something he would ever simply "get over". Donna was very well attuned to this aspect of him, partly because she loved him so much and partly because she was a trauma survivor herself. She understood him now and knew she needed to make a plan that would spare him what he knew he wasn't able to handle.

"Ok," she said calmly, standing up. "I'm going to get dressed; I'm going to help you get dressed. We will slowly walk to the car and then I will drive you, faster than is legal, to the emergency room. We don't have to get an ambulance, but we are going right now."

He nodded breathlessly and she started dressing quickly. When she came back to the bed holding a set of his clothes, he had regained his breath a little more but looked at her with an expression of intense terror.

"Donna," he whispered.

"Yeah?"

"I'm scared."

A few hours later at the hospital, the couple breathed an enormous sigh of relief when the attending physician gave the good news that the EKG and blood work had not indicated a heart attack. Josh was being given oxygen and felt significantly better; now he was restless and frustrated with himself for making such a big deal out of the whole thing. Donna, who'd been holding his hand, pulled it to her face and kissed it.

"We need to figure out what's going on though," the doctor continued. Josh cut him off.

"Doc, it's not my finest hour, but I know well enough what happened," he said. "I'm an out of shape old man who couldn't keep up with his hot wife. I'm really feeling a lot better."

The doctor smiled awkwardly. "That's why you had the tests you did," he said dryly. "Respiratory distress in a forty-eight year old man during sex is a heart-attack until proven otherwise. It's not dignified, but it happens. That's not what happened here, but being cute about it doesn't change the fact that you've been struggling to breathe for several hours now."

"I'm not anymore!" Josh snapped.

"Don't argue, Josh," said Donna sternly.

"Ok," said the doctor. "Let's test that. Pull that tubing out of your nostrils for thirty seconds. If you aren't gasping like a fish out of water, you have my word as gentleman that I'll discharge you right now."

"Doctor, please," said Donna. "He's just showing off. This isn't neces-."

"I'm holding you to that," Josh cut her off and removed the cannula. Donna cringed as it took far less than thirty seconds for him to start struggling again. She stood up and slid it back into place herself, while Josh panted and glared at the doctor.

"Now that's out of our system," he began. "I've taken a thorough look at your chart, and my next major concern is the history of injury to your pulmonary artery. I'm ordering an angiogram of the area to go in there at the vascular level and find out what's going on. I think you're not getting decent blood flow to your lungs and that's what's causing the problem."

"How long will that take?" Donna asked. Josh had gotten quiet. "Is it safe?"

"It's very safe," said the doctor. "They'll take him down to the cath lab in a few minutes, then the procedure should take about an hour. He'll be mildly sedated."

"Thank you, doctor," said Donna and he left. She turned to Josh who had taken on a serious and thoughtful expression. She knew the look well; he eyes intently forward, his mouth slightly open.

"How is this even possible?" he asked quietly. "That it's a Rosslyn thing; that was almost ten years ago."

"I'm sure they're just being thorough," she replied gently. The same question was racing through her mind as well.

"Do you have my cell phone?" he asked nervously.

"I have it, but I would prefer not to give it to you right now," she answered.

"I need to call Sam," Josh argued.

"It's 2:15 in the morning."

"He needs a heads-up on this," said Josh. "It might leak that I'm here; he'll be pissed if he gets it from the Huffington Post instead of me."

"What about the President?"

"No, that can wait," he replied. "He needs to be on top of his game for the speech next week; we don't need to be waking him up in the middle of the night for every little thing."

"Please don't refer to this as every little thing," Donna began. "It's terrifying to me."

"Sorry."

"Let me call Sam," she asked. "You just rest for a minute." Josh nodded.

Just then, a pair of orderlies arrived to bring Josh for his test. Donna kissed his forward and told him she loved him, and he squeezed her hand affectionately.

"We'll bring him back soon Mrs. Lyman."

* * *

"Donna?" Sam said, suppressing a mild yawn as he sat up in bed. He had snapped to nervous attention when he saw her name on his phone. The White House Deputy Chief of Staff was perfectly accustomed to phone calls in the middle of the night, but one from Donna's personal cell phone could almost certainly only be something bad.

"Sam, Josh is in the emergency room," she spat out. Sam immediately flipped the switch on his bedside lamp and put his glasses on.

"What happened?"

"He got very short of breath," Donna started. "I was afraid it was a heart attack; they've already done some tests and they don't think it was, thank God, but they still aren't completely sure what caused it."

"Damn, I'm on my way," said Sam, starting to stumble around in the semi-dark of the room to find a t-shirt to put on. "What hospital?"

"GW, but maybe don't come right now," she said. "He mostly just wanted to make sure you didn't find out some other way. Even if they discharge him soon, I'm forbidding him from going in to work tomorrow so your plate is going to be full."

"Can I talk to him?"

"They just took him for an angio," Donna explained.

"An angio? I thought you said this wasn't a heart attack?"

"They're looking at the vessels around the lungs," she explained slowly, then swallowed a lump in her throat. "There's concern about a problem with the repair of his pulmonary artery."

"Jesus," said Sam.

"This is so scary Sam," she whimpered.

"Are you sure you don't want me there?"

"I'll call you when he's done with the test," said Donna. "You can talk to him then too. Can you do me one favor though?"

"Anything."

"Tell the President," said Donna abruptly. "He told me not to, but I think he's wrong. I'm going to talk to Mrs. Santos in the morning, but I think he has to hear it first. Maybe don't wake him up, but tell him when you can."

"Of course," said Sam. He wasn't surprised to hear that Josh was taking an inappropriately cavalier attitude in this situation. It would be a difficult conversation if the doctors' concerns turned out to be true; Josh had a very close relationship with Matt Santos, but the shooting was never easy for him to talk about with someone who hadn't been in his life when it happened. "I'll make sure I speak to him before Senior Staff."

"Thank you Sam."

Two hours later, they had wheeled Josh into a more private room to recover. He was lightly sleeping off the sedative, and a nurse assured Donna that he was doing well. The on-call vascular specialist would be coming by shortly to talk to them together. Donna pulled her chair right up to his bedside and started gently running her fingers through his hair.

Josh opened his eyes slowly and smiled when he saw his wife.

"Good morning, love," she whispered.

"What'd they say?" Josh asked.

"Nothing yet; the specialist is going to talk to us together now that you're awake," she explained. She wondered if she should be nervous about that, but she tried her best not to let him see that. Josh noded, calmly.

"I'm so sorry about last night," he said.

"Please don't worry about that," Donna shot back quickly. Suddenly the most important thing on her mind had dropped to nearly the bottom of her list.

Josh, however, started to shake his head. "I was being an ass," he started. "And I've been wrong. About the whole thing."

"We don't have to talk about this now," Donna insisted.

"Please," he interrupted. "Let me finish."

She took a deep breath and nodded.

"I was wrong to make you drag me along on this," he said. "I got weirded out by the doctor's appointments and the ovulation calendars and all that. But tonight I realized that I could miss out on the chance to do this with you." A tear started to gather in his eye and she squeezed his hand. "And that is so much scarier than any of that other crap."

"Dr. Bonner thinks it's ok to stay with the conservative plan for a few more months," Donna reminded him gently. "You said that was all you were comfortable with for now, and I respected that. I still do."

"You know about my general distaste for all things conservative, don't you?" he said with a smile. Donna laughed. How much he loved the sound of her laugh.

"By all means, let's keep having lots of sex," Josh continued. "That part is perfectly delightful. But I'm gonna call her office tomorrow and get us another appointment a little sooner. Let's talk about the next steps. You call the shots about everything involving your body, but I'm telling you now that I'm ready to go all in with you."

A big smile washed over Donna's face. "I like the sound of all-in."

A few minutes later, the doctor came in.

"Hi, I'm Dr. Sondra Moore," she said, holding out a hand to shake both Josh's and Donna's. She then went straight into business mode. "Well, sir, I'm afraid there is definitely a problem with the site of the surgical repair in 2000."

"What kind of problem?" Josh asked, nervously.

"It's failing; the episode you had tonight was a warning, but this could get very serious very fast," she began. "We studied the notes from the trauma surgeons, your post-op exams and today's angiogram, and there is a weakness in one particular part of the closure in the pulmonary artery. It's not causing an arterial bleed from that site yet, but it's very taxing on the smaller vessels, causing small bleeds in and before the lung, and preventing blood from the heart from getting properly oxygenated. Your symptoms tonight weren't necessarily that you couldn't breathe, but that the breaths you were getting weren't adequate to get oxygen to your body."

Donna's heart sank. This sounded just as bad as a heart attack. "What can be done about it?"

"For now, we've reinforced the more problematic area with a device similar to a stent," Dr. Moore explained. "The blood flow will be stronger and that will help prevent more hypoxia issues. In fact, we can probably reduce your oxygen now and see how you do." She stepped over to the machine behind Josh's bed and adjusted the settings. He kept the cannula in place, but didn't notice any difference; that was a great relief. He did in fact feel much better, but he knew there was more.

"I suspect there's a 'but' coming up, isn't there?" he asked dryly. The doctor nodded.

"This is a temporary fix," she said. "The problem will get worse."

"Then what happens?" Donna asked, squeezing her husband's hand.

"This will eventually need to be repaired surgically again," she explained.

"Do I have to have my chest cut open every ten years for the rest of my life?!" Josh snapped anxiously.

"We're definitely not there yet," she said. "Vascular surgery has come a long way in the last decade, and when you had the initial procedure, it was under much more dire circumstances. In a trauma situation, surgeons have to adapt to unfolding elements. Keeping you alive, getting the bullet out before it did more damage, preventing infection. There was a graft procedure available at the time that they weren't able to try because you were too badly injured. This won't be like that."

"How soon can he have it?" Donna asked abruptly. "I'm going to call Abbey Bartlet first thing at seven a.m. and find out who she would recommend to do the surgery. How can I access his chart to send out? We'll fly to the other end of the country if we have to; wherever she says the best guy in the country is, that's where we go. Will he need an ambulance transport? If so, once you get that organized, I want him to have a sedative or something for anxiety if that's possible. Could I ride with him? And I'll call Stanley Keyworth. How long will he be in the hospital after the surgery? What kind of follow-"

"Donna," said Josh quietly. He watched her start to spin out racing through every detail, but she hadn't noticed that Dr. Moore clearly had something else to add; something she wasn't going to like.

"Mrs. Moss-Lyman," she said gently but firmly. "He can't have the surgery for a while."

"What?!"

"He can't have it right now," she said. "He's not stable enough. His blood pressure needs to be much better controlled. His blood sugar is on the high-side for not having eaten in almost ten hours; if he's even just prediabetic, that needs to be identified and addressed because it can be very dangerous with vascular problems. He'll need a complete work-up on the state of his heart; it wasn't an MI tonight, but he definitely has risk factors. This is a major operation, and he needs to go into it as healthy as possible, or there is a very real chance he won't survive it. But we bought time with the angioplasty tonight. If we can get some improvement on those fronts, I'm very optimistic that he'll do very well. He's a little older and a little less healthy, but he's come through worse before."

Donna started to cry so Josh reached over and wrapped his arm around her shoulder and pulled her close to his chest. "It's ok," he whispered.

She took a deep breath, but couldn't quite stop crying. Josh stroked her back softly. The worst part of this was seeing her suffer.

"We're going to keep you a few hours for observation," Dr. Moore began. "I want to contact your primary care doctor and have a follow-up appointment set up before you leave, but as long as you're doing ok, we'll get you discharged by early afternoon. You'll want to make some decisions about where you want to have the surgery. I'll have Dr. Singh's office call you later this week; he's chief of our vascular surgery department."

"His office will call later this week!?" Donna snapped indignantly. "I'm sorry, did anyone forget to mention that my husband is the White House Chief of Staff?!"

"Donna," Josh tried to interrupt, but she persisted.

"No, this is ridiculous! You had a major operation in this hospital and now they tell you all these years later it didn't work, but their surgeon who could help you now can't be bothered to see you right away!" She turned to the doctor. "Do you realize that this man is the closest advisor to the Matthew Santos? He's in the room when decisions about everything from the budget, to US troops in Central Asia, to healthcare and education are made! Those two well dressed and heavily armed men hanging out outside the door are his Secret Service detail! So please do a little better than his office will call later in the week!"

"I'll see what I can do," said Dr. Moore calmly.

"Thank you, Doctor," said Josh. He was embarrassed. The idea that he was more deserving of decent care than anyone else because of his position sickened him. "Please excuse my wife; it's been a long night."

"Get some rest, Mr. Lyman," she said and exited. Donna gave him a glare and pulled away from him.

"I don't appreciate you apologizing for me."

"That wasn't like you, Donna," he replied. She averted her eyes in shame because she knew he was right.

"I'm sorry," she said quietly. "What do we do? What happens now, Josh?"

"We'll figure it out together," he responded and pulled himself up into a sitting position. "Let me give Sam a call; I'll let him know I won't be there today and fill him in on what's going on. I'll leave it until a little later, then I'll talk to the President. You shouldn't go in either; you've had less sleep than I have."

"I've already left a message for Mrs. Santos' new personal aide," said Donna. "I know she'll call me when she wakes up; she'll be worried about you."

"Maybe you should go home and try to sleep a little," Josh offered.

"No, I wanna stay with you," she replied. "We're going to have to make a few more calls once it's a decent hour."

"Who do you have in mind?" said Josh. "I don't know that I want to tell everyone we know about this just yet."

"Your mother and the Bartlets," Donna replied. "I meant what I said about getting her opinion on who should do this; I'm not trusting you to just anyone."

"He'll take this badly," said Josh. "But no matter what, he'll be calm and serene compared to Mom."

"We'll worry about it a little later; just get some sleep now."

"I'm still calling Bonner's office about moving that appointment up," said Josh resolutely.

"Honey, it's ok, we don't have to worry about that now," Donna started to half-heartedly protest.

"I don't want our lives to go on hold," said Josh. His face got serious. "Donna, we missed out on a lot of time we could have had together because I was a coward for so long, and I hate myself for that. I almost allowed myself to be a coward about this, but I can't do that. We're not going to miss out on having a family, not for anything in the world. I won't let it happen."

Donna took a deep breath in a futile attempt to save her composure. "Josh, you know how badly I want a baby," she started. "But I don't think I could stand to have one without you."

Josh squeezed her hand tightly. "I'm not going anywhere, I promise."

They both knew that was a blatantly ridiculous thing to say; Josh almost regretted saying it because it probably insulted her intelligence, but it seemed to reassure her enough in that moment. She smiled and squeezed his hand back. Maybe it wasn't the sort of thing that he could know was true, but it was what she needed to hear, and that counted for something.

* * *

Sam was sick with worry about Josh as he went through the day. He'd spoken to him in the morning, but that conversation wasn't reassuring. His mind started spinning back to the shooting and its aftermath; the terrifying hours of waiting for word, as his dear friend fought for his life on the operating table, how he crafted a plan to drag the KKK through the courts to pay for what they'd done to him, how months later, he blew up at Ainsley Hayes for so much as mentioning her opinion on guns, how frightening it was to see Josh shouting at President Bartlet in the Oval Office and later appearing with a mysterious cut on his hand. Those were memories he hadn't spent a great deal of time focusing on in years.

He was in his office reading a long memo about appropriations when his desk phone rang; it was Ronna.

"Yeah," he greeted.

"Hi Sam," she started. "The president wants you in the Oval for a meeting with Congressman Preston and two Evangelical pastors at 1:30. Josh was supposed to sit in."

"I'll be right over, thanks," he said and hung up. It was difficult to keep up with all of his work and Josh's, but that didn't matter. This meeting didn't exactly sound like a treat; a freshman Republican Congressman from rural Texas and a pair of Bible-thumpers. He put his jacket back on and walked to the Oval Office.

"How's Josh doing?" Ronna asked when he reached her desk.

"Haven't talk to him since this morning," Sam explained. "He might be home by now. I'll try calling when we're done here."

"He's been working so hard," Ronna mused. "Sometimes I worry he'll end up like Leo."

Sam cringed at that thought. He constantly worried that Josh would end up like Leo. "Can I go in?" he was eager not to continue talking about it.

"Oh, yes of course," said Ronna. "The president is expecting you." Sam smiled and proceeded into the Office.

President Santos was leaning on his desk and looking out the window.

"Sam," he turned and greeted his advisor. "Thanks for finding time for this."

"Of course, Mr. President," Sam replied. Santos came out from behind the desk and took a seat, motioning for Sam to do the same.

"Helen talked to Donna a little while ago," he started. "They discharged him; I don't want him to come back to work tomorrow, but I don't suppose I can do much about that short of an executive order."

"I'll help draft one, sir," Sam offered. The president laughed.

"So it is this issue with the gunshot wound?" he asked.

Sam nodded. "They fixed it for now, but he's eventually going to have to have surgery."

"When I talked to him, he made it sound like he'd sprained an ankle," the president explained. "I need to go through my wife to get straight information. Thank God for Donna."

"Yes."

"This meeting," Santos started, changing the subject. "I know it seems like an odd thing for me to take, but I was intrigued. Preston is a darling with the religious right, but one of his pet projects is sentencing reform."

"Seems like an odd combination," Sam mused.

"Well, he's young and idealistic," Santos continued. "He wanted to talk to me about some pardons and clemencies. I'd be interested in being more proactive about that. There are a lot of people in this country, many of them black and Hispanic, doing hard time for nonviolent offences and it's a disgrace. I don't think that's exactly what the meeting today is about. This Reverend Jaymes coming with him today has a big ministry in the South about reformed white supremacists. It's not a group of people I'm terribly sympathetic towards, but it might be a good start for some bipartisan action on rehabilitation."

"Well, it should be interesting," said Sam. There was a knock on the door, then Ronna appeared.

"Mr. President," she began. "Congressman Preston, Reverend Jaymes and Pastor Schmidt."

"Send them in, thank you." The three men filed in and exchanged handshakes with Sam and the president.

"Welcome, gentlemen," said Santos, motioning for them to sit.

"Mr. President," began the Congressman. "As a fellow Texan, I can't tell you what an honor it would be to work with you on this important issue."

"That's great to hear, Congressman," Santos replied. "I know there's not a lot we see eye to eye on, but moving our criminal justice system in the direction of rehabilitation is a worthy cause."

"Legislation takes time," started Preston. "As I'm learning quickly. But you can make a great start with pardons and commutations."

"You know there's a process for this, Congressman," Sam interjected. "Applications go through the pardon attorney's office."

"We understand that Mr. Seaborn," began Jaymes. "There is a specific case we wanted to speak with the President about."

"Reverend," began the president. "I hope we can speak candidly. And by 'I hope we can', I of course mean, I'm going to speak candidly and you're going to like it, because of who you're talking to."

"Of course, sir."

"Good," he began again. "I'm familiar with your organization, Reverend, and I have to say, I really think there are better uses of my pardon power than neo-nazis who changed their minds about it."

"'I tell you that in the same way there will be more rejoicing in heaven over one sinner who repents than over ninety-nine righteous persons who do not need to repent,'" recited the other clergyman.

"Luke 15:7," replied Santos. "Well, you won't hear me arguing with that."

"Many of the men Reverend Jaymes and Pastor Schmidt have helped through their ministries in Texas and Georgia have rebuilt their lives and helped teach others to turn away from hate Mr. President," said the Congressman. "My wife and I were very moved when a young man who bravely broke away from a prison skinhead gang witnessed at our church."

"That's lovely," Sam began, a bit defensively. He didn't want to hear about repentant white supremacists, especially not today when Rosslyn was so heavily on his mind. "But you need to understand that the president's agenda on this matter is far more concerned with helping non-violent offenders who were treated unfairly from the start, people who've largely been victims of systemic racism."

"Of course," replied the Congressman. "But we think there's a great opportunity here to come together, political differences and all and live Jesus' compassion."

"You're not talking to America's Pastor, you're talking to the Commander in Chief," Sam rebuked.

"We know you're a man of faith, sir," said Pastor Schmidt. "Just like your predecessor."

"Let's cut to the chase, shall we?" said Santos. He didn't like the tone of the conversation. He could tell Sam was on edge and he was annoyed that his Catholicism was being treated like a political weakness to be manipulated. "I assume there are specific pardon applications you have in mind? Tell me about them."

"It's just one case," began Reverend Jaymes. "Two years ago, a young man serving a life sentence in a federal prison in Virginia wrote to my church. He wasn't asking for anything except for us to pray for him; his soul was burdened by the terrible thing he'd done."

"Which was?" Santos asked. All three men hesitated, then the Congressman spoke in a very carefully and well practiced tone.

"He was an accomplice and co-conspirator of an attempted murder of a black man some years back," he explained. Sam bit his lower lip.

"He wrote to me because the Holy Spirit had changed his heart," the Reverend continued.

"What's his name?!" Sam barked.

"Sam," Santos tried to calm the waters.

"What is his name?" Sam knew it was a mistake of decorum to ignore the president like that, but he would deal with any fallout from that later. The Reverend looked him straight in the face.

"Carl LeRoy."

Sam took a deep, fury suppressing breath, then stood up from the couch and removed himself from the immediate vicinity.

Matt Santos knew it wasn't very presidential of him not to immediately seize back control of the room, but he couldn't find it in his heart to tell Sam off about this, especially not amidst what was happening to Josh.

"Is it too much to hope for that it's some other guy also called Carl LeRoy?" he said quietly. Jaymes smiled sadly.

"Mr. Seaborn," he began. "I understand your anger."

"You have some nerve, do you know that?" Sam snapped, turning back to face them. "You come into the Oval Office to beg mercy for a man who helped shoot the president? Who nearly killed the current White House Chief of Staff? Who tried to murder President Bartlet's son-in-law?"

"Sam," the president said firmly. "Sit down." He took a deep breath and complied.

"Carl is not the same man who committed that terrible crime," Jaymes continued. "Since his conversion, he has devoted his life to the Lord and to stopping the cycle of hatred that led him to ruin his life. He's been a model prisoner; he broke off gang affiliations inside at great risk to his own safety and he now leads an inmate Bible-study group."

"He hasn't been in prison ten years," Santos argued. "Now, I'm not exactly one for laying down the hammer on long prison terms, but the man shot the president! He seriously injured several people! And he did it because the thought of an interracial couple sickened him!"

"He didn't do the shooting," said Pastor Schmidt.

"He took part in it! He gave the signal and made it possible, that he didn't pull the trigger is a minor detail at best and you know it," the president shot back, raising his voice slightly. "You know, people like that have a problem with my marriage too. Do you know how many threatening letters to Mrs. Santos and even our children about precisely that the Secret Service intercepts every month?"

There was silence.

"Dozens," said Santos soberly. "Sometimes hundreds."

"That's despicable, Mr. President," said the Congressman.

"Yes it is," he replied harshly.

"And Carl knows that too now," began Jaymes again. Sam visibly rolled his eyes. "He wants to devote whatever time he has to serving the Lord and his brothers and sisters."

"Whatever time he has?" Sam asked, increasingly annoyed. "The guy can't be older than his mid-thirties"

"Carl was diagnosed with metastatic thyroid cancer last month," said the reverend. "He's receiving treatment but the prognosis isn't good. We're bringing this to you now so that he can go home to his family before he goes home to the Lord."

Sam felt like leaping out of his skin.

"Do you know what he said at his sentencing?" Sam started. "About my friend, Josh Lyman? The judge asked him if he had any regrets, and do you know what his answer was?"

The room was quiet.

"Mr. Seaborn, you have to understand-"

"Do you know what he said!?" Sam yelled. "Because I do!"

"He answered, 'Yeah, I regret that the dirty Jew we hit didn't die'." said the reverend quietly.

"Do you know why Josh Lyman himself isn't in this meeting right now?" asked the president, much more calmly.

"We had hoped to speak to him," said the Congressman sheepishly.

"That's not possible because he spent the night in the hospital," said Santos. "Because of a complication from the gunshot wound that Carl LeRoy made possible. I'm sorry gentlemen, but your timing probably couldn't have been worse. I think we've said all that needs to be said." He stood, giving the others the unsubtle message that the meeting was over.

"Thank you Mr. President," they began in chorus as they began to exit the Oval Office. As the other two men left, Reverend Jaymes lingered.

"Sir," he began. Santos glared at him. "Carl has a lot of supporters, in my church, in the Evangelical community. Out of respect for Charlie Young, President Bartlet and Mr. Lyman, I've asked a lot of people to hold off making a big public push about this until I spoke to you privately first. Now that we have spoken, you may start hearing a great deal more about it."

"So it's on me to tell the former president and my chief of staff about this?"

"I'll be praying for Mr. Lyman."

"So will I," said Santos. "If you'll excuse me, I'll be late for my next meeting, Reverend."

"Thank you, Mr. President."

When they had the room to themselves, Sam and the president exchanged looks of frustration.

"I'm sorry you got blindsided with that, Sam," said Santos. "I'd like to see you keep your head a little better, but I would never have made you go into that meeting blindly if I knew. I don't think I would even have taken it, except maybe for the satisfaction of telling them no to their faces."

"I appreciate that, sir," Sam replied.

"I've gotta talk to Josh about this as soon as possible; he doesn't deserve to learn about it from the news," Santos began. Sam nodded.

"It was every bit as terrible as you'd think it was," said Sam, very suddenly. The president looked up at him with sympathy in his eyes. "He'd been my friend for a long time and I really thought we were gonna lose him."

"It's not that I have no pity for this guy," the president began. "But these people are delusional about what he did. We're gonna call this meeting a one-off favor to a newbie Texas rep for nostalgia on my part. We've got better things to worry about."

"Thank you Mr. President," said Sam as he started towards the door.

"Sam," he called back once more. "I didn't go through Rosslyn with all of you, but I owe a hell of a lot to Josh Lyman. More important than that, he's my friend too. We're going to help him through this." Sam smiled and nodded.


	2. Chapter 2

**Hi everyone! Thanks so much for the support for this story, especially the reviews! Here's the next chapter; I hope you enjoy it!**

 _April 2010_

Joshua Lyman knew perfectly well that there were other moments in his life that had been this painful, but right now, he could scarcely think of them. The car ride home from the emergency room in silence was like torture to him. He wanted to lash out at the world, scream at the top of his lungs and rage at the brutal unfairness of it all. But he remained as calm as he could, even as tears continued to gather behind his weary eyes and the lump he kept swallowing constantly reformed in his throat.

Donna had stopped crying hours ago, but her suffering was no less apparent as she lied down on the couch as soon as she was inside their townhouse. Josh knelt at her side and took her hand.

"Do you need anything?" he asked.

"Nothing you can give me," she whispered harshly and pulled her hand free. She didn't mean to lash out at him; he was just the closest target. She tried unsuccessfully to find a comfortable position on the couch, but it was no use. The vicodin dulled ache that radiated from her pelvis to her lower back was persistent. She tilted her head and saw him standing back, looking pitiful.

"I'm sorry," she said softly. "You didn't have that coming, but I think I want to be alone for a little while, ok?"

Josh took a deep breath and nodded. "Of course," he said. "I'll just take a drive around the neighborhood. I have my phone; call me if you need me, I'll be right there."

"Thanks." Donna closed her eyes and listened as he slowly walked out the door. When she knew she was alone, she gave into the deep, core shaking sobs that had lingered below the surface. Everything hurt.

Josh stood in the driveway feeling lost. He had no idea where he'd go, but if she needed space, he knew he had to give it to her. Slowly, he got into his car, but just sat there for a time before even starting it. There was a tiny bit of blood on the passenger seat; he would make sure he got the car cleaned before Donna would have to look at it.

There was nowhere for him to go. Of course this would happen on a Sunday, when he and Donna were normally off work and he wasn't currently behind enough on anything to justify going in to a likely completely empty West Wing, so his usual source of solace was unavailable. A dark part of his brain hoped that some sort of global crisis would unfold right now, giving him no choice but to report immediately to the White House to advise the president. A few hours in the situation room trying to prevent a world war would be so much easier than this. He double checked that the ringer volume on his work phone was turned all the way up.

There was no one he could talk to. No one knew, not even his mother or Donna's parents. Tomorrow, to everyone he interacted with, it would be like nothing had happened. No one would know how their fragile piece of a desperately hoped for future had been torn away from them. They had chosen not to tell anyone for precisely this reason. As if somehow, they imagined that this kind of grief would be easier to bare in silence. It made sense at the time, but now Josh couldn't really remember why.

He started driving with no particular destination in mind; there weren't a great deal of options on a Sunday morning. The silence bothered him, so he turned on the radio to NPR, but didn't really listen. He glanced out the rearview mirror, spotted the black SUV following him, and sighed with disgust. It annoyed him that he couldn't even have privacy now. There had been many conversations about whether the Chief of Staff should be allowed to drive himself, but it was one piece of normalcy that Josh insisted on maintaining as he adjusted to life with his own Secret Service detail. He was glad now that he hadn't backed down on that; it bugged him to be protectively followed, but at least he had some distance.

After mindlessly winding through the neighborhood for nearly a half an hour, he had the closest thing to a good idea he could manage. He made an abrupt turn onto a larger street, much to the irritation of the driver behind him. But he didn't care; he suddenly knew where he had to go.

* * *

The Lymans' dog, Shea, had forced her way onto the couch and curled her large body beside Donna as she cried and clung to her tightly. She cried for what seemed like a long time, until she started to feel the beginnings of relief. Eventually, her eyes dried, and a little while later, Shea sensed her service was no longer needed and wandered off in search of a toy. Donna sat up on the couch and looked around her empty living room.

She wanted Josh.

She wasn't sure exactly how much time had passed since she told him to go, but she was regretting that she had. She had regained her composure but she still felt so empty. And she had sent away the only person on earth who might make her feel something close to whole again. Her mind started racing to dark places; was she headed back towards the pit of misery and despair she sank into and hid so skillfully in the months after Gaza? She and Josh began to drift apart around that time; once she left her job, they became estranged for nearly a year. Was something like that in motion now? Would it be worse now?

She thought about his upcoming surgery and her stomach twisted itself into a knot. What if she pushed him away now, and something happened to him before they could find eachother again? That thought was too terrible to comprehend. She tried to force her mind in a different direction.

It settled on what had been a joyful memory, but would now only ever be painful to think about.

Just three weeks ago.

She and Josh were preparing to travel to Florida for a weekend. They would spend some time visiting his mother, celebrate Passover with her, and take a drive to see his beloved Mets in spring training. Donna began to have her suspicions a week prior; thirteen months of trying to conceive made her extremely well attuned to her cycle. The doctors had told her the most accurate time to take a test was first thing in the morning, so she bought one Thursday evening and she and Josh went to sleep that night feeling like children on Christmas Eve.

The next morning, they woke up early, their bags packed to go straight to the airport from work. They leaned on the bathroom counter nervously for three minutes that felt like days. Tests in the past had been bitter letdowns, but today, they couldn't believe their eyes as a tiny pink plus sign began to form. It was finally happening.

They arrived in Florida that night, Josh carrying every single bag including Donna's purse. When their taxi arrived at his mother's condo, she remarked on it right away.

"It's taken nearly fifty years, but could it be that my son is finally a gentleman?" Rachel Lyman teased when she saw him.

"What are you talking about? I've always been a gentleman," Josh protested. "And that 'nearly fifty years' thing was cold blooded and uncalled for." He put the bags down and hugged her. She kissed his cheek and turned to Donna with a warm smile.

"You've trained him well, dear" she said, giving Donna a hug. "But you'd tell me if there was some other reason for his chivalry, wouldn't you? Some wonderful reason you shouldn't be lifting things? Come one, I'm an old woman; you shouldn't leave me in suspense."

"You'll be the first to know when we have some good news, Rachel," said Donna with a smile. "But today he's really just being the nice guy you raised him to be." They both sensed that his mother wasn't entirely convinced, especially when Donna declined wine later in the evening, but Rachel didn't prod further; she understood. When they returned from Florida, Donna's doctor confirmed the pregnancy and for three sweet weeks they rode the high of joyful excitement, sharing it only with each other.

Suddenly, those memories felt like scenes from someone else's life. All Donna was very sure of was that she wanted Josh in her arms.

* * *

Josh spent a lot of time at Arlington in an official capacity, attending events and ceremonies with President Santos and President Bartlet before that. He knew his way around well enough and it took him no time to find the exact place he was looking for.

 _Leo Thomas McGarry_

 _1948-2006_

"Hey Leo," he said, barely audibly. "I don't know exactly what I'm doing here; you'd probably say I was being crazy. I just," he took a deep breath. "I just didn't have anyone else to talk to." Josh glanced around, making sure no one was watching him. The black SUV was parked behind his car, and the two agents stood a respectful distance away. There seemed to be what looked like a small procession in the distance, but he didn't pay it much attention.

"Things are kinda bad right now," Josh continued. "I don't know; maybe you know all that already. Maybe you don't know anything and me talking to you is pointless, I don't really know. But it's pretty bad right now. It looked so good and then the wheels just started falling off." He swallowed a heavy lump in his throat and continued.

"We lost a baby, Leo," he said, the words causing him to finally lose control over the tears. He made a loud, undignified noise as he sniffled. "We were trying and trying for more than a year. Donna started getting these shots and then it finally happened last month. We were so happy; it was finally happening. Then she wakes up in the middle of the night last night in all kinds of pain and then there's blood, and oh, God, I'm sorry you don't wanna hear all this." He took another deep breath.

"I didn't get her to the ER in time for them to be able to do anything but give her something for the pain and wait for it to finish happening," he went on. "I've never seen her this sad, Leo. And I don't even know what to do for her. I can't stand to see her hurt like this. It's like after Gaza; she's hurt and I can't do anything to help her. And you know something else? I'm pretty goddamned sad myself." Josh bit his lower lip so hard he almost drew blood.

"They're gonna operate June first," he started after a long pause. "When we first met this team at Hopkins, they made it sound like getting my appendix out. A little painful afterward, but a cool scar, miss a week of school, no gym class for a while, that kind of thing. But the last appointment I had was all reminders of the sixty-five hundred ways it could go horribly wrong in just the first hour. They started hammering us about taking care of living wills and power of attorney stuff, as if none of that ever came up during those three years I spent at law school. I get the idea they're trying to lower expectations, just like debate prep; someone oughta remind them what I do for a living.

"It's not that I'm scared," he insisted. "Not like that anyway. Whatever is gonna happen to me is what's gonna happen to me. I think I've made about as much peace with that as I can manage. I've had a really good life." He paused, trying to convince himself he believed what he was saying.

"The only thing is," he started to clarify, "I'm not ready to give it up yet. I have this great career that's more fulfilling than anything I ever dreamed of, but there's still all this work to do. I got to marry the most amazing woman in the world, even though I was a damn fool who took eight years to realize the love of my life had been answering my phone all along.

"She's why I'm afraid. Because I want every second with her I can possibly have. Because only being married to her for three years doesn't come close to enough." He paused again.

"Because I want to be the father of her children," he started again, very quietly this time. "I'm kinda old for that I guess, but nature's more forgiving to men on this. I practically challenged this one asshole doctor to pistols at dawn when he said something about her age being a problem; if you'd have seen me, you would have been really disgusted with me or else really proud. If I have to leave her now, it might not only be me who misses out. I'd like to think she could find someone else, someone to make her happy, give her what she deserves, but what if she didn't find him in time? Is she gonna wake up one day, a few years down the road and look to the day she joined the Bartlet campaign as the worst mistake she ever made? Because of me? What if she wasted the best years of her life on me? What if I ruined her life and she realizes that someday after I'm gone and comes to hate me for it?"

"That's never gonna happen, Josh."

Josh nearly leapt out of his skin. He turned around, startled to see Donna standing behind him. Her eyes were watery and her voice was shaky. She took a step towards him and embraced him tightly.

"I knew I'd find you here," she whispered as she held onto him. "I got tired of being alone quickly and I just knew I'd find you here."

"Are you ok?" he asked nervously. "You shouldn't be here, you should be home resting. Are you hurting?"

"I'm alright," she said gently. "The pain isn't as bad as it was and Agent Hobbs drove me, so I'm really not taxing myself that much. I just needed to find you and be where you were. I didn't want to wait."

"I'm so sorry, Donna," he said. She wasn't entirely sure what he meant, but it unnerved her. It was hard for her to hear him say that after she heard him articulate his fears.

"Joshua, look at me," she said firmly, pulling back just enough to look him in the eyes, but she held onto his hands. His wet eyes met hers. "In sickness and in health."

"Donna, I-" he started.

"In sickness and in health," she repeated. "For better or for worse. That's what we promised each other and we meant it.. A lot of the time, I feel like I can't see over the top of this, any of it. Today I feel like I've been shaken off my foundation, and I know you do too. But there's no one on Earth I'd rather be on this road with than you."

Josh felt ashamed; how could he possibly be so selfish as to make her feel like she had to comfort and reassure him at a time like this? She wasn't finished.

"Whatever happens next month, next year, twenty years from now," she began. "You're the best decision I ever made and nothing will ever change that."


	3. Chapter 3

**-8/8 UPDATE: So I'm currently in the middle of a re-watch of the show (hence why I got inspired to write this story), and I actually just came to the episodes with the shooting, and learned that the name of the person on the ground is given in the show. I've updated the previous chapters accordingly and from here on out the name from the show (Carl LeRoy) will be used. When I wrote the first few chapters, I hadn't remembered that and they didn't mention the name on the wiki page for the episodes so I just assumed there wasn't one and made up some generic "white guy from the south" sounding name, but I'm big on canon details and this character is going to be important to the story, so I've updated it.-**

 **Hello again! Thank you so much for the kind reviews, I'm very glad that people are enjoying this story. I really love these characters and I hope that I'm doing them justice and staying true to what makes them special.**

 **Something that always intrigues me about the West Wing is how the history in the show-verse deviates from real life in some significant ways but stays very true to reality in themes. For instance, I tend to think Matt Santos' presidency would hit similar beats to Barack Obama's, and that in this universe, he would face a similar political climate to the one that we've seen unfold over the last decade in real life. So in this chapter, we see that a controversy which dogged Obama is going to cause problems for Santos. I hope the way I've presented it feels realistic and not too gimmicky. Also, I've taken the liberty of giving our characters a crack at a real-life major legislative issue that remains unresolved today; I realize there's a complex history to this issue that I've skated over, but (like the medical stuff), my first goal is telling a good story.**

 **Also, a quick backstory note: in this story, Margaret stays on as assistant to the Chief of Staff (Josh). I did this largely because I thought the plot would get bogged down by having to create many original characters and I could picture it happening, because they both have something very important in common (their love and loyalty for Leo) that would make them feel good about working together.**

 **Ok, enough notes! Enjoy!**

It was a little disorienting for CJ to step out into the sunshine outside of JFK's international arrival terminal. The nearly eighteen hour flight from Cape Town was draining, especially considering she had another five hour trip ahead of her to get the rest of the way home to Danny and Emily. The conference had gone well; she was able announce that the first major project she'd spearheaded with the Hollis Foundation, a simple two-lane highway through a few hundred miles of rural South Africa, was ahead of schedule and under budget. The parts of the road already completed had made it possible for three UNICEF mobile vaccination clinics to reach remote villages and get vital immunizations to hundreds of children. This conference had been a chance to meet with nonprofit and government leaders to plan new projects and build on that success.

CJ loved her work. Sometimes she felt nostalgic for the White House, but that mostly had to do with missing the people; the current chapter of her story was every bit as fulfilling as her time as a press secretary or even as Chief of Staff. Now that she was free of the burden of "living the first line of her obituary", she poured herself into practical solutions for the world's great problems and still came home at the end of the day to a wonderful man and perfect baby girl. Her life was good.

She had a long layover before her connecting flight back to California, so she planned to make the most of a few hours in New York City. There would be just enough time for lunch with an old friend.

CJ took a taxi to the agreed upon restaurant and opted for a table outside. While she waited, she glanced through pictures on her phone that Danny had sent her the past week. Emily was slowly but surely mastering the art of walking and she greeted everything in the world with enthusiasm. Danny was completely enamored with everything about her, and CJ felt a slight pang of sadness for having missed even a few days with her at this unrelentingly charming stage. She travelled a lot for work, but a part of her knew and felt reassured by the fact that someday her daughter would be very proud of the work she did.

"Afternoon, CJ," she looked up from her phone and saw Toby sitting down. She smiled brightly.

"Hey, Toby," she said. "I'm so glad the timing worked out on this; it's wonderful to see you."

"You too," he began. "You look great. How was Africa?"

She excitedly told him about the conference and her projects. He updated her on his life as an academic, how it suited him well, even if he sometimes really missed the thrills of professional politics.

"I think enough time has finally passed that these students don't see me as quite so much of a curiosity," he said. CJ nodded reassuringly because that made sense. A few years ago and it would have been reckless for her, even when she was out of government, to be seen in public with him, but she was thankful that time had made her old friend less radioactive.

"Do they like you?" she asked.

"Do they like me?" Toby asked incredulously. "What do you mean? What kind of question is that?"

CJ laughed. "I mean you students," she said. "Do they like you? Are you one of the cool teachers?"

"These are students at one of the most prestigious universities in the world, CJ," Toby countered. "They are some of the brightest young minds in the United States and they're soon going to be tasked with solving problems you and I could never have imagined ten years ago! They don't care if I'm a cool teacher; they care to learn what I can teach them about political communications and professional writing."

"So, what I'm hearing is, no, not a cool teacher," CJ teased.

"The word 'grumpy' comes up in a lot of my course evals," Toby conceded. They both laughed.

"You know, I have this one kid in my writing roundtable class," Toby began. "He's quite the contrarian and he drives me up a wall most of the time, but God help me, I kind of enjoy him. He writes and turns in two versions of every assignment, from both sides. Can you believe that? I don't know if its charmingly eccentric or pathetically nerdy. I should resent that he gives me two things to grade, but I can't ever resist reading both. Last week, he does a pair of essays on this Matt Santos birth certificate crap. One of his papers makes him sound like he should be a damn program director for Fox News, and the other is just this perfect and beautiful articulation of sanity and critical thinking that would have given Sam and me a run for our money in our best days. I've been teaching this kid and reading his writing almost all semester, and I can't figure out which is the real version of him and his ideas. He perplexes me."

"Most of those kids are pretty liberal though, right?" CJ asked.

"For the most part, but you'd be surprised," Toby began. "There's a subset, mostly of straight white boys, who kind of flirt with libertarianism and think they're quite clever about it. For some it's like the gateway drug to the right wing fringe. There's this other kid in a different class I don't enjoy quite as much. He's got some new reason why Santos ought to be impeached every week, but he occasionally breaks it up with something about why Josh should be in prison for various malfeasance."

CJ laughed. "Aww, poor Josh," she started. Toby smiled. "He's having a rough year. You and I tried to warn him to give up his life of crime though. I guess the game's up now this Columbia kid is onto him."

"We'll bring him a cake with a nail file in it when we visit him," said Toby snidely.

"We were all gonna do that for you, you know," CJ replied.

Toby's face reverted back to its usual serious state. "Have you talked to him recently?" he asked quietly.

"A couple weeks ago," CJ started. "He sounded really good, not as anxious. I mean, he's burning it at both ends with the campaign and he's gotta be worried about the surgery and somewhere in there running the White House, but he just seemed really happy."

"Happy?"

"Yeah," said CJ. "It was nice."

"What does he think about this LeRoy business?" Toby asked very suddenly. That had come up in one of his class discussions the previous week.

"I don't know, I haven't asked him," said CJ. "I try not to think about it too much. I have rather strong feelings about it and I have to imagine it's difficult for him."

"I had a student say I was a hypocrite," Toby started. "I try not to spend too much of the class time talking about my opinions on things, but she asked me and I just remembered finding him there, screaming for the paramedics and everything else we found out later and I couldn't bring myself to say anything other than I hope this guy dies in prison."

"And she said you were a hypocrite?"

"How dare I get a presidential pardon and then argue that someone else doesn't deserve one," Toby explained. "That kind of thing."

"Well that's nonsense," said CJ harshly.

"A part of me wondered if she had a point though," said Toby. "Maybe it's not my place to comment on it."

"That's never really stopped you before," she replied.

"How's Emily?" Toby asked abruptly, fairly eager to change the subject. CJ understood. She told him all about every little milestone her girl had met in the last few months and showed him nearly a dozen photos. Then he updated her on the twins. Molly was obsessed with horses and begging to take riding lessons; Huck was finishing his first season of non tee-ball Little League. Andy had to pull teeth to get either of them to practice piano for fifteen minutes a day.

"They're gonna come up here and stay with me for two weeks once the summer starts," Toby explained. "It's hard being so far away from them, but we make it work. this'll be the longest I've had them here at a time and I'm really looking forward to it. I got tickets for the Lion King on Broadway and I'll take them to a Yankee game. I'm still holding out hope that my Oriole fan ex-wife hasn't hopelessly corrupted my innocent children."

CJ smiled. Their situation was unorthodox, but Toby's children brought out the softest and warmest parts of him. CJ had been his friend for many years, and it always made her happy to see this side of him.

* * *

Late Wednesday afternoon, Donna finished a call with a dean at the University of Texas where Helen Santos would give a commencement speech next month.. Donna was proud of how far the First Lady had come over the last few years. Helen had gracefully evolved from a reluctant public figure into a poised and dignified stateswoman, as comfortable talking policy as she was raising money for charities. Donna didn't like to overestimate her role, but there was no point in false modesty either; she had been instrumental in guiding that evolution, and she was proud of that.

When the phone call was finished, she at last made up her mind to have a conservation she'd been avoiding. She strode across the hall to Mrs. Santos' office where the First Lady and Annabeth were practicing and making revisions to a short speech for the White House's upcoming Easter festivities.

"Annabeth, can we have the room for a moment please?" Donna asked.

"Of course," Annabeth replied. She gathered her notes and turned to Mrs. Santos. "Thank you ma'am." Donna closed the door when she left.

"What's on your mind, Donna?" asked the First Lady as they both sat down.

"Ma'am," Donna began. "If it's alright with you, I'd like Annabeth to go with you and Miranda to New Hampshire next Sunday instead."

"Instead of you?" asked Mrs. Santos.

"Yes."

"Donna," she began. "You know I never really saw that as you going _as_ my chief of staff, right? You know them better than I do; of course you'll be there as a friend and honored guest, not my hired help. I don't need to be staffed; it's just a baby shower. It just makes sense that we go together."

"You do need to be staffed, ma'am," Donna insisted. "It's a baby shower, but it'll be a photo opp and an excellent way to score soft points at this stage in the campaign, especially when your approval rating is almost twenty-five points higher than the president's. I understand that it's draining to think of every little thing as in the service of re-election, but this is an easy one. A few nice pictures of you and Miranda and a few with some of the very prominent and well liked Democratic women who will be there, that's it. You have someone with you to make sure that gets taken care of, to rescue you if you forget someone's name, to add the sort of presence people expect you to have, all that. And Annabeth will handle that more than capably."

"Well, I suppose you're right as usual," replied Helen dryly. "Anyway, it was maybe wrong for me to just assume you were fine with working at a party you were invited to. You should get to go just as yourself and not the First Lady's chief of staff. I want you to enjoy yourself, at least as much as one is physically capable of enjoying a baby shower. God know you deserve a chance to enjoy seeing some old friends. I heard CJ Cregg is flying in; it's probably been a while since you last saw her, hasn't it?"

Donna took a deep breath; she wasn't sure exactly how to swoop in and correct the assumption. Helen smiled and continued.

"Wait. Does this mean we aren't going splits on that jogging stroller anymore? Damn." Donna laughed politely, but her face quickly became serious again.

"Mrs. Santos," she said nervously. "I'm not going."

"What?"

"It's not a good time," Donna replied carefully.

"Not a good time?" Mrs. Santos asked, perplexed. "What on Earth are you talking about, Donna?"

"I can't go," Donna shot back abruptly, trying to close the conversation.

"Why not? What else have you got going on? We had this on our calendar for weeks," her boss argued back.

"Helen," said Donna, much more forceful this time, looking Mrs. Santos directly in the eye. "I've given it a great deal of thought, and I'm telling you I can't go; the timing is very bad, and I'm not up to it. I've already spoken to Abbey; I've already apologized to Zoey. I'm not going."

Helen Santos immediately understood and felt ashamed of herself for pushing the issue. She valued Donna very highly as a professional but also as a friend and confidant. Sometimes an unintended consequence of their casual and easy rapport was an occasional crossed boundary. In that moment, the First Lady of the United States felt like an ass.

"I know we'll be in great hands with Annabeth," she said. "Thank you, Donna."

"Thank you, ma'am."

"Donna," Helen began again after a slightly awkward pause. "You know if there was ever anything you needed to talk about, you can always talk to me right? I know you've had a tough year and it amazes me sometimes how strong you are about everything with Josh, but I know it's been hard. I want you to know, I'd want to help with anything I could, even if all I could do was listen."

Donna took a deep breath. A part of her wanted to just open the floodgates and tell Helen everything, about the fertility treatments, the miscarriage, how Josh's health problems made the whole thing feel so much more urgent, how much it hurt to hear him say he worried that he'd ruined her life. A part of her wanted that burden lifted. But she couldn't bring herself to do it.

"I appreciate that, ma'am," said Donna. "But I don't think I'm able to talk about it right now."

Helen smiled warmly and nodded.

* * *

 _"All I'm saying Scott, is that this president is acting like he has something to hide,"_ teased the obnoxious voice of a guest commentator on a cable news roundtable show. Josh had left the TV on, mostly as background noise while he reviewed a comprehensive polling report Joey Lucas had sent him. The numbers were troubling, and had mostly been moving in the wrong direction. It was late; the president had long since gone to the residence for the evening, but Josh was determined to squeeze every inch of productivity from the day.

 _"Why hasn't the White House commented on this? Don't they have the decency to prove to the American people, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that this guy is legitimate? That he has a right to be in that Oval Office?"_

Josh was in high focus mode on his work; the events of earlier in the week had shaken him, but diving into running the White House kept him from losing his mind. The campaign was different this time; he couldn't run it and serve effectively as Chief of Staff at the same time, so he reluctantly delegated large parts of that responsibility, but he was still heavily involved.

The polls Joey had conducted were extensive, looking at the public's opinion of Matthew Santos from nearly every conceivable angle.

 _"If he really was born in Houston, he should have no problem releasing his birth certificate! If he's telling the truth, he should have no reason to hide! But this is the new normal with our ruling party! Contempt for the truth! One president lies about having a deadly disease, then his successor might very well be an illegal immigrant who lied his way into the West Wing. And I know that if I was looking to defraud the American people, I'd sure as hell pick Josh Lyman and Sam Seaborn as my right hand men! They're the experts after all their Bartlet time!"_

That last bit snapped Josh's attention over to the TV. He scowled with disgust and turned it off, before glancing back down at the page. When he did, the first thing that caught his eyes was a particularly troubling poll question:

 _Do you believe President Matthew Santos was born in the United States?_

 _Yes - 52%_

 _Probably - 18%_

 _Probably not -13%_

 _No - 10%_

 _Not sure -7%_

"Dammit!" he snarled, stood up and paced around his desk, agitated. Suddenly, in one violent motion, he grabbed the thick report and threw it across the room, knocking over a lamp and making a great deal of noise. He didn't care.

Margaret dashed inside. "Is everything alright?" she asked staring wide-eyed at the pile of scattered papers and broken lamp pieces. Josh took a deep breath and stared down at his shoes, a bit embarrassed to make eye contact with her.

"Yeah," he huffed. Margaret walked over to the opposite wall and started to pick up the mess.

"Just let that be," Josh snapped abruptly. "I'll take care of it later."

"Do you need anything?" she asked nervously. He shook his head and she stood awkwardly in the doorway for a moment. "Have you ever thought to try meditation?"

"Thank you Margaret!" Josh snarled bitterly. She slipped out the door and left him stewing alone in his office. After a little while, he started cleaning up the mess he made, being very careful not to cut himself on the broken glass from the lamp. It would be easy enough to leave that for someone else, but he was too embarrassed. He took his time and let the wheels turn in his brain. When he was finished, he had an idea.

"Margaret, get me Sam please," he called out to her.

"He's still in the Roosevelt Room with Anders and Schultz," she replied. Josh was a bit surprised that meeting was still going on. Sam was trying to coax a pair of moderate Senators to stop holding up a VA spending bill in committee. He'd been in there nearly three hours.

"I want him now," said Josh. "It won't hurt to make them wait a while if they're dragging their feet. I need to talk to Sam about something; go get him, please."

"Alright."

A few minutes later, Sam appeared in the doorway, looking agitated. "I was making progress in there, please tell me this is important," he said.

"It is," said Josh excitedly. "I figured out how we're going to deal with these conspiracy kooks."

"Josh," Sam began, feeling a bit annoyed. "We have had many conversations about this, and you have said all along, rightly, that we were not going to engage with them, and that has been our position. You know that as soon as you even acknowledge this, you give them exactly what they want. Nothing will ever be good enough, so the best thing is not to engage."

"I'm not talking about engaging," Josh shot back. "I'm talking about taking back control of the conversation."

"Legislation?"

"Immigration reform," said Josh with an eager smile. "Comprehensive. We've still got a Democrat Congress, now is the time. We're going to use our political muscle to go to bat for the rights of undocumented people who came here as kids. American kids who were born somewhere else but have only ever known life here."

"What did you have in mind? Scale back deportations? A lot of that can be done with executive orders. Were you thinking something more?" Sam asked, the idealist in him was intrigued.

"A path to citizenship," said Josh. "It's not a new idea. We've had a lot of conversations with the President on this; you know it's something he cares about. I know there's plenty of support in the liberal base. We'll a dozen cosponsors in the Senate in ten minutes. We're talking possibly hundreds of thousands of people who never broke any laws, living and working and studying, who could come out of the shadows and be recognized as Americans. It's smart, it's fair; it's good policy."

"Like we talked about before?" Sam started. "Well, you know I like it. Cool, let's make a plan and be ready to go with it first thing in the new year."

"No no no," Josh muttered quickly. "Not the new year, not after the election. We're probably gonna lose the Senate and maybe even the House in November. I'm talking about right now."

"Josh, we'll lose the White House in November if we try this now," said Sam, somewhat harshly. "You were the one who told me that."

"What are you talking about?"

Sam was stunned. "Are you serious? We had half a dozen meetings about precisely this last fall! The president wanted it in the State of the Union and you talked him down! You talked all of us down. You said it was too risky before the election, but once there was nothing else to run for, we could revisit it."

Josh felt mortified. He hadn't exactly forgotten, but he was so wrapped up in the present that the painstaking ordeal of persuading the president that this issue he cared deeply about was too volatile to touch before the election had eluded his attention. He always supported the policy but didn't want to sacrifice the Santos presidency for it. He and Sam had disagreed bitterly about it. But tonight, thinking about it gave him this invigorating surge of righteous indignation that he didn't want to temper. What better way to shut up racist conspiracy nuts than with bold progressive policy action? Josh wanted to fight a good fight right now; he saw the possibility as his salvation from every negative thing he was feeling.

"Well, maybe I was wrong!" he snapped, raising his voice. "Maybe doubling down on our values and doing right by vulnerable people who deserve it is the best way to respond to this, this, bullshit!"

"No, you weren't wrong," said Sam. "I don't like it, but if we don't sit on this, we won't succeed and none of these people will thank us when they're being deported en masse under Ray Sullivan's administration."

"Don't lecture me about politics, Sam!"

"I'm not!" Sam shot back. "You said all that and you were right! You convinced us!"

"What happened to Sam Seaborn the eternal idealist?" Josh was practically shouting now. Sam took a deep breath and bit his tongue slightly. He sensed that this was quickly devolving into an ugly fight he had no interest in having.

"Josh," he began very calmly. Josh looked up at him tensely. "Listen to me. If you can look me in the eye right now and tell me that you honestly believe now is the right time to pursue this, then I will be at your side and we'll be a united front when we go to the president with it. We'll talk to him tonight, you have my word."

Josh averted his eyes in embarrassment.

"It was a stupid idea," he mumbled. "I just, I don't want to sit on the important stuff anymore, Sam. It's making me crazy."

Sam's heart sank; a part of him had been vaguely afraid of this. He hesitated briefly so as to choose his words carefully.

"What's going on?" he asked gently.

"Nothing," Josh shot back automatically. Sam struggled to repress an eye roll.

"Josh," he started again. "You can't lie to me; I've known you too long. You've been really agitated all week and I'm not the only one who's noticed. So tell me what's going on so I can help you."

Josh stared at his feet, open-mouthed, trying to think of what to say. Sam took a step closer to him, trying to seem less combative.

"Are you getting nervous about the surgery?" he asked quietly.

Josh nodded silently.

"I might be running out of time to build a legacy, Sam," he said.

"Don't you dare talk like that!" Sam snapped. "You're going to be fine!"

"You don't know that!" Josh shot back. Sam knew he was right, and that was the worst thing of all.

"I know; I'm sorry," he back-pedaled. They stood in uncomfortable silence for a moment.

"It's not just that," Josh whispered. Sam looked back up at him, concerned. "Donna was pregnant."

"Was?"

"She's not anymore," Josh said softly.

"Oh God, Josh," Sam started. He put his hand on Josh's shoulder. "I'm so sorry."

Josh didn't say anything. A part of him felt like telling Sam was some sort of betrayal to Donna and their decision to keep what happened private. He hadn't really meant to, but now that he had, a part of him felt some relief. At least he could unquestioningly trust Sam to be discreet.

"Come on," said Sam. Josh gave him a look of confusion. "We're leaving; we're done for the day."

Josh started to shake his head. "No, I've got-"

"Let's go," said Sam, grabbing Josh's suit jacket from the back of his desk chair. "We need a drink. I'm buying."

Josh thought to object again, but couldn't bring himself to. He nodded and quietly followed his best friend out of the office.


	4. Chapter 4

**Hello again and thanks for the reviews! As you can see in the previous chapter's notes, I updated the story to include the correct name from the show for the shooters' accomplice, so if you've been reading along and notice the switch, that's why.**

 **Enjoy!**

Getting old and slowing had never seemed to occur to Rachel Lyman, even though she was nearly eighty. Yes, her stylish pixie cut was almost completely white and she did live in a condo in Florida, but she lived each day with zeal. She was in excellent physical shape, taking long power walks on the beach nearly every day, and her mind was just about as sharp as it had ever been.

On some days, she wished it wasn't.

Other people her age forgot things, but Rachel hardly ever misremembered a phone number or where she put her keys. The vast majority of the time, she knew she was incredibly lucky, but days like today, when the worst memories of her life were at the forefront of her thoughts, she wondered if senility, which most of the time terrified her, might be something of a blessing.

Exactly forty years ago, Noah was taking her into the city to see a symphony; the tickets had been a birthday present. She bought a new dress and looked forward to it eagerly for weeks. Rachel had loved music and it delighted her that Joanie had shared that passion.

When she and Noah were getting ready to leave, she gave Joanie some cash to order a pizza. Her teenage daughter was mature and responsible, but she didn't love the idea of the kids cooking without her being around to supervise. Noah thought that was a little unreasonable, but didn't push the issue; he knew the kids would be perfectly happy to have pizza anyway, and why shouldn't their Saturday night without Mom and Dad be a little fun?

"Make sure he goes to bed at a decent time," she had said to Joanie as Noah tried to hurry her along. "TV off by nine, ok? And don't you stay up too late either." Her daughter had rolled her eyes slightly but in a mostly playful and innocent way; Joanie and Rachel never had the sort of truly adversarial relationship that occurred between many mothers and adolescent daughters.

Rachel turned to eight-year old Josh. "You be good for your sister," she said, then kissed both kids goodnight and left with Noah.

" _And don't you stay up too late either."_

That was the very last thing she ever said to her baby girl. There were some details it might be nice to forget from time to time.

She couldn't allow herself to sink into the past, so she proactively made sure to have other obligations. Today she was attending a large luncheon for volunteers and supporters of the Southwest Florida United Way, which she was heavily involved in. She had gone back and forth over whether or not she felt up to going, but ultimately decided that being around people was preferable to being alone with her thoughts. On days like today, being active and involved in her community wasn't simply a nice thing to do, it was as essential to her survival as clean drinking water.

Rachel dressed in a smart, well tailored light blue skirt suit. She never wore very much flashy jewelry; today it was just an elegant broach Josh had sent her a few Mother's Days ago and a pearl necklace that had belonged to her mother-one of the very few family treasures that made it out of Germany during those darkest days of the last century.

Adjusting the broach in the mirror, she thought about Josh and felt an overwhelming sense of terror and dread. They were inching closer to his surgery date, and despite his constant reassurances that the doctors were mostly pleased with his progress, she sensed he wasn't being entirely truthful about everything they were telling him. When he and Donna visited at Passover, she went to put clean towels in the guest bathroom one morning and was very disturbed to see that he had more pill bottles than she did.

Suddenly, she became fixated on an idea, a resolution, a vow to herself: when the day came, when they wheeled him to the OR, she would make sure that "I love you" was the very last thing she said. Nothing ridiculous like, "And don't you stay up too late either".

She double checked her makeup and took a deep fortifying breath and went out the door.

At the luncheon, Rachel only knew a few of the people at her table but they arrived a bit late and weren't able to sit next to her. With those few exceptions, Rachel quickly began to feel that the group was in general, rather tedious company. She nevertheless tried very hard to force an interest in the dull conversations though, because the alternative-wandering around in her own thoughts-was worse.

"My granddaughter came out this spring," said one older lady with a seemingly exaggerated New England accent. Rachel, having lived in Connecticut for more than six decades and having married into a very affluent family, knew perfectly well what she was referring to, but decided to have a little fun anyway.

"That's lovely," she said. "Does she have a nice girlfriend?"

"I beg your pardon?" said the woman.

"Not that she needs to have one to come out of course, but it'd be nice for her if she did, that's all. But she's pretty young, right? She's got lots of time to find someone. You know, my son thinks marriage equality might make it to the Supreme Court next term; isn't that exciting?" Rachel persisted, sounding perfectly sincere as she did. Her friend Suzanne, sitting across the table repressed a giggle as some of their tablemates started looking annoyed.

"I meant that my granddaughter is a debutante, and she was lovely and elegant at her coming out ball last month," the woman replied dryly.

Rachel smiled. "Oh, that's nice," she said and took a sip of water.

The food arrived and an organizer led the room in saying a polite, non-denominational grace. Rachel was normally quite devout. It often bothered her that Josh wasn't more observant and she harbored quiet anxieties that he wouldn't be very proactive about raising his future children in the faith or with enough attention to their family's history and traditions; Donna wasn't Jewish after all. But today and the days leading up to it, Rachel didn't feel a great deal of affection for God. She had skipped going to temple the previous Saturday.

As she ate the catered fare, Rachel did zone out a little from the table conversation; it seemed like most people did to some extent. The food was quite good, a bit to her surprise.

Suddenly something did catch her attention back.

"I think it's needlessly cruel not to even consider it," said a woman at the table; she seemed to be perhaps in her sixties, with medium length blonde hair, skin that looked like it had seen a lot of sun over her lifetime, and a bit of a Southern accent. Perhaps she was one of the few people there who was actually from Florida. Rachel knew immediately that they were talking about LeRoy; so many polite lunchtime conversations lately had worked their way to that subject. "It sounds like the poor man could die very soon. If he's really sincere, and it sounds like he is, what point is there to keeping him in there?"

"I agree," chimed in a man Rachel thought she'd seen before. "They should keep the politics out of it and just consider compassion."

Rachel was taking another sip of water and gagged.

"Compassion?" she choked. Her friend Suzanne's face grew worried. The rest of the table looked up at her.

"Have you all met Rachel Lyman?" said Suzanne carefully. "Her son works at the White House."

"You're Josh Lyman's mother?" asked the grandmother of the debutante. "My goodness!"

Suddenly the atmosphere had changed. Rachel felt anxious that all the attention was on her.

"I'm very proud of him," she said quietly, swallowing a slight lump in her throat. "I almost lost him."

"But you didn't lose him," said one of women. Her tone wasn't harsh or condescending, but surprisingly gentle and kind. "Thank God, they were able to save him."

"They didn't set out to hurt my son specifically," Rachel replied softly. "They were trying to kill Charlie Young, for being a black boy dating a white girl. Isn't that sickening? They thought he should die for that! Sickening!"

Everyone at the table nodded in troubled agreement.

"At the one sentencing hearing," Rachel continued. "The only time I ever actually laid eyes on this guy, he said something that shook me to my core. He had since found out who Josh was and it was like learning that he's Jewish made almost killing him something of a consolation prize. I saw he had a swastika tattooed on his hand. People like that hurt members of my family before. My father was barely alive when they liberated the camp at the end of the war."

Everyone at the table looked profoundly uncomfortable now.

"Here was this young man," Rachel continued. "This young man, poisoned by hate. I've met Charlie Young a few times. It's almost impossible not to like him when you talk to him, but here was this young man who hated him. He and his friends hated him so passionately they wanted to end his life. And in trying, they almost ended my son's. He had no reason to hate my son either, but once he learned one little thing about Josh, he knew he hated him too, and he was disappointed that they hadn't killed him."

"So you don't think they should consider pardoning him?" asked one of the men at the table. Rachel took another slow sip of water. She had agonized over this question for weeks and weeks.

"I've had a lot of difficult conversations with some friends and my rabbi and even a therapist about it," she began slowly. "I feel a type of anger that's awfully close to hatred. I pray a lot for the strength to resist that, but it's not easy when it's your child who's been hurt."

"You know," she began again after a pause. "I feel the most compassion, the most humanity when I think about his mother."

"I read in some newspaper article that she's very much a white supremacist herself," said Suzanne, a bit surprised by Rachel. "That he regrets it and has changed his tune, but she never has."

"I read that too," said Rachel. "It makes sense; how else would Carl LeRoy have become what he was if not for the way he was raised? I don't know very much about this woman, but I do mostly feel a lot of anger and disgust about her, it's true."

"Then what's special or different when thinking about her?" asked the woman from Florida.

"Because I know what she's faced with," said Rachel somberly. "I lost a child; Josh's older sister was killed in a house fire in 1970. This woman's child is most likely going to die, and she won't be with him when he does if he stays in prison."

The table was quiet. Rachel swallowed a heavy, heavy lump in her throat.

"I wasn't there when my daughter died," she said, almost too quietly to be heard. "I wasn't able to hold her hand so she wouldn't be scared, I wasn't able to try to lessen her pain, I wasn't there to hear her last breaths the way I heard her first ones."

"Oh Rachel," began another woman at the table, almost tearing up herself. Rachel maintained her composure. "That's terrible; I'm so very sorry."

"Thirty years later," she began again. "I saw on the evening news that the president had been shot at leaving an event and I knew Josh was there. When I couldn't get him on his cellphone, I frantically paced around by the phone in my empty house waiting for him to call me and tell me he was safe. About an hour later, Leo McGarry was on the line, half in tears telling me that he was in surgery and critical condition.

"The manhunt for LeRoy only took a few hours, but they closed all the airports and the major highways on the east coast," said Rachel. "I couldn't get a flight, I couldn't get a train and the roads were impossible. I was desperate to get to DC, so afraid that it wouldn't be in time. I was so afraid of losing him, and all I could think, was 'please hold on'! I was so afraid, not only that he was going to die, but that he would die scared and in pain while I was stuck in a traffic jam hundreds of miles away instead of there holding his hand!" She had raised her voice more than she meant to, and tears were threatening now. She took a long, deep breath; everyone at the table was captivated by her story.

"It's complicated and it makes no sense, but if this woman loses her son, especially if she isn't able to be with him when it happens, my heart will ache for her. I don't care who she is. I buried a child once, and came very close to having to bury both of my children. There is nothing more horrible in the world, and I don't have it in me to wish that kind of hell on my worst enemy," said Rachel, much more composed this time. She considered and selected her next words carefully; it wasn't her style to talk like this, but weaker language would never have sufficed. "Not even on the neo-nazi bitch whose thug son almost took my Joshua from me."

* * *

Charlie was trying to cut back on the very late nights in the office, but it often couldn't be helped. Despite his impressive resume and presidential father-in-law, he was only a year out of law school and had a ladder to climb with the US Attorney's office in DC. But as much as he loved the job and as ambitious as he was, he had a family now.

When he got home that night, the house was dark and quiet. He glanced at the time as he put down his briefcase and keys; it was after ten. He took off his jacket and loosened his tie, then walked into the living room where Zoey was sitting silently on the recliner.

"Hey," he said, turning on a lamp. She looked up at him slowly and smiled a little.

"Hey," she said, adjusting her seat slightly. At seven and a half months pregnant, it was starting to get difficult to stay comfortable for long periods of time.

"Kinda dark in here, no?" he said gently.

"Hadn't really noticed," she replied. "How was work?"

"It was good," said Charlie. "Busy, but good. How about your day? Did you get any more writing done?" Zoey was in the dissertation stage of her PhD program in psychology; she'd made a goal to get a significant chunk of work done before the baby came, but it had become a struggle recently.

"No," she replied quickly. Charlie sat down on the couch near her.

"That's ok," said Charlie. "How's your back feeling today?"

"It's fine," Zoey shot back abruptly. "My back is fine."

"Good." They sat quietly for a little while.

"Charlie, what if I'm hurting him?"

Charlie immediately stood up and walked over to the large recliner where she was sitting and leaned on the arm-rest so he could put his arms around her. It broke his heart that they had to keep having this conversation.

"You're not," he said resolutely.

"You're not a doctor," Zoey snapped back.

"And neither are you," said Charlie. "Two of your doctors and your mother told you the same thing; the risk to the baby is so small and you needed to go back on the pills. It would have been worse for both of you to try to hold out longer."

"So I'm hurting him by being crazy," she whispered.

"What is it you're getting an advanced degree in again?"

She just glared at him.

"Because if it's psychology, you should reconsider, because you're pretty bad at it if you think that was a reasonable thing to say," he said. "I hope you'd never say something like that to a patient of yours."

"No, I wouldn't," Zoey replied. Charlie grabbed her hand and squeezed it tightly.

"I wish I could make this easier for you," he said. He meant it. It had been so important to Zoey that she get through the pregnancy without taking her anxiety medication. The doctors initially thought she wouldn't need it; she had been doing very well the last few years. But over the last few weeks, her symptoms had started to get worse, possibly exacerbated by the pregnancy itself, and despite the reassurance of both her psychiatrist and obstetrician that SSRIs in as small of a dose as she took posed only a slight risk to a developing fetus, and that untreated anxiety was much more dangerous, she felt like a failure. It broke Charlie's heart to see her feel that way. Her kidnapping had left deep scars; most of the time, she was able to channel the memories of that hellish ordeal into a passion for helping other people. But now, at what should have been the happiest time of her life, she was struggling, and there was little he could do to help her.

"My sisters never hurt their babies by being crazy," she said bitterly.

"Please don't talk like that," Charlie pleaded. "Your sisters never lived through what you did. Listen to me, Zoey." His spoke with such command in his voice that he got her attention and she looked him in the eye. "Our baby is going to be fine. He's going to be fine because he's going to be delivered and taken care of by some of the best doctors in the country, but more importantly, he's going to be better than fine because he's going to have you for a mother. And for my part, I promise you that I'm never going to allow any harm to come to my son or his mother as long as I live, do you hear me?"

Zoey loved him so much.

A little while later, when Zoey had finally felt a little better and gone to bed, Charlie sat up at his desk looking through his briefcase for some notes about a case that would be going to trial soon. As he reached into his case for a notepad, his hand caught something, an envelope.

He pulled the envelope out and stared at it; this was the last thing he wanted to look at right now.

It was another letter from Carl LeRoy. The first been sent over two years ago; he threw it out without opening it. Others came periodically and all met the same fate. He knew it would be a simple enough thing to make the letters stop entirely; he could get a type of restraining order. Since LeRoy was already in prison and all his outgoing mail went through security screenings, it would be enforced 100%. Yet something kept him from taking that step; maybe it was the satisfying feeling of seeing the letters arrive and throwing them away.

This one was different though; for reasons he couldn't quite identify, he'd carried it around in his bag for over a week now. It had arrived care of his office; Charlie would probably burst into the prison and attack him if he ever tried to send a letter to his home, to the place where Zoey lived, to the place where they would bring their child home in six weeks. Fortunately, thanks to the Secret Service, there was virtually no danger of that happening.

It had been a strange conversation with President Santos back in January when he learned about LeRoy's cancer and supposed spiritual epiphany. The president called him to warn him that he would soon hear on the news that a large group of Evangelical Christians were about to start publically calling for his release. Matt Santos assured him he had no intention of pardoning him. "Good," Charlie had said. That was all he needed to say.

Sure enough, he did start hearing about it; suddenly Carl LeRoy was something of a celebrity. Charlie almost lost his mind when an asinine Fox News segment suggested that LeRoy's regret over the shootings and denouncement of West Virginia White Pride was proof that the country "had finally healed from the wounds of racism".

That the man was dying was of little interest to Charlie. Lots of people get cancer; his sympathy was better spent on the ones that hadn't tried to lynch him.

He poured himself a glass of Scotch and decided to toss the letter into the trash like the others.

As he sat there though, he couldn't quite bring his mind back to work as he'd originally planned. He kept thinking about the letter, feeling a strange sort of curiosity about it. But rather than digging it out of the garbage can and reading it, he pulled out his phone instead.

* * *

Josh breathed a heavy sigh of relief as he finally emerged from the situation room.

"Thank you Josh," said Matt Santos, looking tired. "That was rough, but you helped me see what I needed to do. You might have saved me from making a terrible mistake back there and I'll always be grateful for that."

"You made the right call, Mr. President," said Josh. The president looked him in the eye.

"I was almost out of control in there, Josh," he said quietly. "The thought of those Marines in that kind danger made me lose sight of my better judgement, and I might have done something very stupid and destructive if you weren't by my side helping me see through it. This country is lucky to have Josh Lyman serving it, and someday, somehow, I'm going to make sure the world knows that the way I do."

"Don't start planning how you're going to write about me in your memoirs yet," said Josh. He was always a little uncomfortable taking such sincere praise; his instinct was to deflect it. "You've still got more than four years of governing to do, whatever the latest poll says."

"Take the damn compliment, Josh," said the president, slapping him on the shoulder with a weary smile. Josh returned the smile.

"Thank you, sir," he said. In truth, he was very touched by the president's words.

"I'm going to the residence now, I think," began the president again. "But I don't think I'll sleep in case anything happens. I hate to say it, but maybe you should hold off on going home just yet."

"No, I'll be here a while still, sir," Josh began. "We probably won't need to brief until the morning if nothing develops overnight, but I want to make sure our people have the information they need, especially Lou, so she's ready when it's time to talk to the press."

"Goodnight, Josh."

"Goodnight Mr. President."

Alone back in his own office, Josh sunk deep into his chair and stared into space. The exchange in the situation room had been draining. In the early days of the administration, when something like this would happen, he would call CJ. She would always be answer, no matter the time. There would be things he absolutely couldn't tell her, but she didn't ever need details to understand. She was really the only person on Earth he could talk to who understood what it was like to sit beside a president and help him make the kinds of decisions that got made it that room. Sometimes those decisions were terrible. People often died because of decisions made in that room, and every single one of those decisions etched itself on Josh Lyman's heart.

But as time went on, the late night calls to CJ tapered off; as she pointed out to him, soon they reached a point where he'd been in the job longer than she ever was. She would always be a dear friend happy to commiserate with him, but she couldn't be the seasoned mentor to help reassure him anymore. He was alone now.

He was snapped out of his reverie by the sound of the phone ringing. Not his office line, but his personal cell phone. It was Charlie Young.

"Charlie?" he answered, wondering if he'd been misdialed. It seemed like a really odd time for him to call.

"Hey Josh," Charlie replied. "You weren't asleep, were you?"

"No, not at all. I'm still at the White House actually," he explained. "What's on your mind, Charlie?"

Charlie hesitated. Suddenly he wondered if this call was a mistake. But he was stuck without an escape now. He cleared his throat. "Does he send you letters too?"

"What?"

"Carl LeRoy," said Charlie. "Has he tried to write to you?"

Josh was taken aback. "Why? Is he writing to you? What the hell does he say to you?"

"I've never read any of them," Charlie explained. "They started like two years ago, but there's more lately."

"Two years ago?" Josh asked with surprised.

"Yeah, supposedly that's when he got saved," Charlie shot back with contempt in his voice. Josh laughed bitterly. But now he realized he hadn't answered Charlie's question.

"The first one he tried to send me was less than a year after the shooting," he explained quietly.

"You're kidding?" Charlie was stunned. "Did Jed know?" It was still odd to here President Bartlet referred to as "Jed".

"No," said Josh. "Only Leo and Donna knew about it."

"He was doing this apology-tour bullshit that long ago?" Charlie asked incredulously. "That doesn't make any sense."

"No, no, it wasn't like that at all," Josh clarified. "Charlie, it was a threat letter. I never actually saw it; the FBI told me about it and I got a restraining order."

"And you never told the president?"

"It was right when we were preparing to break the MS news," Josh explained. "He didn't need that on his plate. I only told them."

"Why?"

"I wasn't doing well at the time, Charlie," Josh explained anxiously. "I had gone a while without, um, without an episode, but then I found out about that and I spiraled out a little. Donna noticed right away and she made me talk to Leo. They helped me get it together and I begged Leo not to tell anyone. Look, I don't really mind you knowing, but I don't want it to be a thing."

Charlie was shocked by this revelation. Suddenly an important implication occurred to him.

"If he was sending threats to you, he probably sent them to me," he said somberly.

"Yeah, most likely," said Josh.

"Why didn't I ever know?"

"The Secret Service probably dealt with them all," said Josh. "The President was adamant that you had the highest degree of protection after Rosslyn, even when you weren't with Zoey."

"But what about you? Why didn't the Secret Service deal with your letters?"

"I was more of a private citizen then," said Josh. "I wasn't the original target of the shooting and I wasn't dating a member of the president's family. It was an FBI thing with me."

"So if he was trying to write you now, he couldn't?" Charlie asked.

"Yeah," said Josh. "I've gotten the order renewed as needed. I don't think I care what he's got to say now. I try not to think about him."

"They make that hard," said Charlie. "His people are on the news, on the internet. I heard they're even trying to get an actual TV interview with him."

"I heard that too," said Josh. "Possibly Dateline. He's a public curiosity now; the ratings would be crazy on something like that."

"I'd hate for my sister to have to see that," said Charlie somberly.

"I'd hate for my mother to have to see it," Josh agreed.

Charlie was quiet for a while. He was always a little uncomfortable talking to Josh about the shooting. He spent a lot of time and effort resolving his feelings of guilt that the president had been hurt because of him, although with time, he was able to accept that it wasn't his fault. But for all his attention to the president, it was Josh who almost died.

"Josh, can I ask you something?" he asked abruptly.

"Sure, what's up?"

"Did you ever take anything?" Charlie asked, somewhat nervously. "Like, anxiety meds after Rosslyn?"

Josh wasn't sure if he was annoyed or just stunned. "Charlie that's not really any of your business."

Charlie suddenly felt mortified for having asked. It had just slipped out.

"I'm sorry, forget I said that," he tried to back-pedal. Josh took a deep breath.

"I do take pills," he said, clearing his throat a little. "I have on and off at different times since that Christmas after the shooting. I'm back on them since January; they thought it would help prevent blood pressure spikes."

"I'm sorry I brought it up; that was out of line," said Charlie again, now really regretting it.

"No, it's okay," Josh replied. "I guess it's not really anything to be ashamed of. At least that's what Donna keeps trying to tell me."

"She's right!" said Charlie very firmly. "She's right, it's nothing to be ashamed of. Don't ever think it is."

Josh didn't say anything; he sensed there was something more on Charlie's mind but he didn't want to pry.

"Do you think the president should pardon him?" Josh blurted out.

"No," said Charlie quickly. "You?"

"No."

"Anyway," said Charlie. "I just was wondering if he wrote to any of the others. Thanks Josh. Have a good night."

"Goodnight Charlie," Josh replied. When he hung up, he glanced at the time. It was nearly midnight. He suddenly felt a knot in his stomach; the day was almost over and there was something he'd been putting off. He had one more call to make.

Josh dialed his mother's condo landline. It rang five times before the answering machine picked it up; she was probably asleep. He took a deep breath and cleared his throat uncomfortably before speaking.

"Hey Mom," he started. "I'm sorry I didn't call earlier. I, uh, it was a long day, some stuff I can't talk about, but that's not important. Were you ok? How did that lunch thing go? I was worried about you." He paused. "Ummm, I thought about her all day today. I was thinking today that I can't really remember what her voice sounded like."

Josh swallowed a lump in his throat. "Mom, I'm so sorry. She should be here and she's not, and I am so incredibly sorry for that."


	5. Chapter 5

**Here's the new chapter! This is a little longer than some; there's a fair bit of exposition, so I hope it doesn't get too bogged down. In this chapter we get a little on Donna's family. I hope you all like the way I've pictured their dynamic; it's going to be important in future chapters. Thanks again for the reviews! I really appreciate the feedback!**

"Hey Mom," said Donna as she answered the phone. She had been avoiding talking to her, but now found she couldn't really justify putting her off again.

"So you do know how to answer a telephone after all?" said Lisa Moss sarcastically.

"I'm sorry," said Donna. "Things have been busy."

"My daughter the career woman," Lisa teased. "You can never come home for Easter, now you can't answer my calls. I'll need to start making appointments with your secretary."

"Please don't give me a hard time about it, okay, Mom?" Donna pushed back. "I really am sorry we haven't talked in a while. How are you? How's Dad?"

"We're fine, Honey," Lisa replied. "I'll knock it off; it's just nice to hear your voice."

"Easter is difficult; the First Lady always has a very full event schedule for it," said Donna, still feeling defensive. "Come out by us next year; you know I can get you invited to some of the White House festivities and make it a real experience, but you never want to make the trip for a holiday."

"You know your father doesn't like to travel," her mother countered. "Besides, we hate to miss a holiday with the little ones. Oh Donna, I have to send you a picture! Cara had the most adorable outfits for Ian and Marcy! We did an egg hunt this year and everything, it was the most fun! Even Sophia got into it, but of course she insisted she was just playing along for the babies' sake. She's such a character!"

"Mom-" Donna tried to interrupt. She wasn't feeling up to gushing anecdotes about her nieces and nephew. But Lisa persisted.

"They missed Auntie Donna though," she said.

"We'll be in Madison and Milwaukee for a couple days with the campaign in two weeks," Donna reminded gently. "And Josh and I are going to carve out time to come see you like we planned."

"Oh, of course, I'm looking forward to it," said Lisa excitedly. "You know we've got our Santos signs in the front yard up already. The neighbors are already heckling us!"

Donna relaxed a little bit. Her relationship with her mother could be very tense at times, but little gestures like that reminded her that Lisa was in her corner. She knew her parents didn't care very much about politics; putting up the Santos lawn signs was a way of showing everyone in their fairly conservative town that they were proud of her.

"Mom, I've gotta tell you something," she said quietly. Lisa was immediately worried by her tone.

"What's the matter?"

"I had a miscarriage about two and a half weeks ago," said Donna quietly. She didn't cry when she said the words aloud the way she was afraid she would.

Lisa gasped and sniffled a bit. "Oh Baby, that's terrible! I'm so sorry."

"I was feeling so happy and then it was all just the setup to get dropped so low," said Donna, feeling more and more relieved to have finally articulated it. "I'm sad and I'm angry and I'm scared."

"I know, sweetheart," said Lisa. "Can I do anything for you? Do you want me to come out there? I can spend a few days with you. Oh, God, I'm sorry for prattling about the kids; that's probably the last thing you wanted to talk about!"

"It's ok," said Donna. "I went back to work right away and I'm finding it feels better to just keep living my life. If I slow down, I think too much about it. Don't worry about coming here; I'll see you soon enough and that'll help. It'll even help to see the kids I think; I do miss them."

"So you knew you were pregnant?"

"Yeah," said Donna."We knew for a couple weeks. They said it was at about five weeks' gestation when we lost it. Not uncommon for a first pregnancy at my age, they said."

"Why didn't you tell me?" Lisa asked. Donna tensed up again.

"You weren't exactly supportive when I told you we were trying," she said icily.

"That's not fair," said Lisa harshly. "Donnatella, that isn't fair. How can you throw that in my face now?"

"We didn't want to tell anyone because we knew this was a possibility," said Donna, pulling back a little. "But what you said last fall hurt me, Mom. And I didn't forget it. It stayed with me and it had a lot to do with why I couldn't talk to you about this until now."

"I never meant to hurt you," said Lisa. "Your father and I have our issues with Josh; that's not a secret. But-"

"You really needed to either get over your 'issues' after I married him," Donna snapped. Her mother paused for a moment before speaking.

"If, God-willing, you do become a mother soon, Donna, you can just try imagining it and then you'll see how simple you would find it to get over knowing that your baby was nearly killed in a terrorist attack halfway around the world, then being expected to welcome the man who sent her there into your family with open arms," said Lisa. "To say nothing of him having been your boss for seven years."

Donna bit her lip; she was furious, but she forced herself to gain composure.

"Mom," she said fiercely. "I can't listen to this or have this conversation now. I'm sorry I told you; it was a mistake."

"Donna-"

"He's never stopped blaming himself for what happened in Gaza," said Donna. "That's something you don't realize about him; he never stopped blaming himself. No matter how hard I've tried to convince him that I don't blame him, he will blame himself until he dies."

"I know it wasn't all his fault," Lisa tried to walk back.

"It wasn't his fault at all," Donna snapped. The memory of Josh's painful revelation at Leo's gravesite played in her mind and she felt very protective of him.

 _What if I ruined her life and she realizes that someday after I'm gone and comes to hate me for it?_

"And unless you start accepting that, or at least do a more convincing job of pretending that you understand it," she continued as calmly as she could. "We might not be able to find time in the Wisconsin schedule."

"You're threatening not to come see your family?" Lisa asked, shocked. "When you're going to be in the state anyway?"

"I love my husband," she replied. "And I won't allow the worst of his feelings to be validated by people who are supposed to be his family right before he goes through what he's about to go through. It's always a worry I have when we're all together, but this time, I just won't allow it."

"I was never going to say any of that to him," Lisa insisted. "Your father wouldn't either; give us a little more credit than that."

"Mom, I'm serious," said Donna. Lisa took a deep breath.

"Ok," she said calmly. "I'll do better, I promise. I never want to hurt you, and you might not believe me when I say this, but I really don't want to hurt Josh either. You know, we've got our whole church praying for him every week, that he comes through this safe and heals completely." Donna started to cut in, but Lisa anticipated what she would say. "Don't worry, we never tell them any specifics that aren't already public knowledge, just that our son-in-law is having surgery in June. No matter our issues, he _is_ our son-in-law, and we do look after our own in this family."

"I wish you knew him like I do," Donna replied quietly. "If you did, you wouldn't just tolerate him out of obligation, you would love him. Like really and actually love him. It would make perfect sense to you why I love him so much."

"Love doesn't always have to make sense," said Lisa.

"I'm so afraid of losing him, Mom," said Donna, almost at a whisper. "He's been on all these meds for months, and his blood pressure and heart aren't really any better, but they don't want to delay it because the artery is getting worse and his lungs are getting weaker because of it. The one pulmonologist wanted him to start his leave of absence from the White House right away, but that's a non-starter for Josh."

"Damn stubborn men," said Lisa.

"I think I understand though," said Donna. "I don't really like it; I wish he would do exactly whatever any doctor tells him to do, but I think I understand this."

"Why? It sounds irresponsible to me."

"He's having a hard enough time with the idea of being off eight weeks afterward," Donna explained. "It'll be almost like going through the original recovery from the shooting all over again, and that was so hard on him. The idea would be to relieve some of his stress, but that fails to consider one important fact: Josh Lyman wasn't made to sit still, and I think if he has to spend weeks sitting still waiting for something like this, especially during the campaign, that will create ten times as much stress as working until the last minute."

"We'll keep praying for him," said Lisa. Donna knew her mother was sincere about that, but there was a limit to how much it comforted her. She believed in God, but like Josh, she wasn't terribly committed to the religious traditions she was raised with. As a couple, they celebrated the major Christian and Jewish holidays together and had a very thoughtfully planned interfaith wedding ceremony but other than that, religion really wasn't a big part of their lives. She had found over the last few months, that many people were very eager to offer up religion as a solution to the many problems she was facing, and it had begun to grow tiresome.

"Thank you," she replied politely. "I'll let you go, Mom. It was good talking to you. Tell Dad I can't wait to see him."

"I love you Donna," replied Lisa.

"Love you too."

* * *

Somewhat to his surprise, over the years, Josh had found that he enjoyed working with the Secretary of State. His meetings with Arnold Vinick could get very heated, but even their most intense disagreements were negotiated with a certain level of mutual respect. Josh felt that was rare in his dealings with Republicans.

For the Secretary's part, cultivating a working relationship with Josh Lyman had started off as a daunting challenge. He was self-reflective enough to recognize his own insecurity and discomfort with the situation. By accepting the post, he would have to work closely with the arrogant young man who'd once told a United States Senator to "shove his legislative agenda up his ass". But far harder still to cope with was the knowledge that Bartlet's pitbull had been the architect of his greatest disappointment; it was a universally accepted truth that without Josh Lyman, Arnold Vinick would be president.

Though, for all his initial discomfort, with time, Vinick began to see that there was a great deal more to Josh Lyman than he'd appreciated before. The White House Chief of Staff was phenomenally intelligent, deeply caring and more open to new ideas than most people gave him credit for. He also had a cutting sense of humor, which tended to make their meetings more enjoyable. Gradually, Vinick even began to soften in his resentment over losing the election.

As a relatively routine cabinet meeting was adjourning, Vinick lingered behind slightly.

"Was there anything else, Mr. Secretary?" Josh asked. President Santos, who hadn't quite left the room yet, turned around.

"Mr. President," Vinick began, glancing around the cabinet room, satisfied that the last staffers had exited and the three men were alone. "Josh, I think it's time the three of us had that conversation."

Josh looked down and swallowed.

"Alright," said the President, returning to the room and retaking his seat. Once he sat back down, the other did too, Josh beside the President and Vinick across the table. "Tell us about your concerns, Arnie?"

"Can the two of you tell me today in good faith that Sam Seaborn is going to be up to the task of the East-Asia summit in August?" he asked sharply.

"Yes, I have complete faith in him," said Josh without skipping a beat. "He's smarter and more conscientious than I am and I trust him with my life. After you've worked with Sam for a couple weeks, you won't even want me to come back."

Santos and Vinick exchanged glances that didn't go quite unnoticed by Josh.

"And you, Mr. President?" asked Vinick.

Matt Santos took a deep breath. "Sam is very capable."

"Capable?" Vinick probed. "Is 'capable' good enough for meetings that could have major consequences on North Korea policy for decades? Especially given the circumstances and all the possible contingencies."

"What are you saying?" Josh snapped.

"Josh," said Santos gently. "It's not a totally illegitimate concern."

"With all due respect, Mr. President, it certainly is," Josh snapped. "Sam is more than ready for this. He's been thoroughly briefed on the entire agenda for the summit and he's been with me in every planning meeting for months."

"He's never taken the lead on anything like this," began the president. "There's not a lot of room for a learning curve."

"He won't need a learning curve," Josh insisted. "It's not about who's done exactly this before; the right person rises to it, and Sam is the right person. Besides, he's not going to be completely alone. I'll be back by the time the summit actually happens, and even while I'm still out, there's not going to be any change to my security clearance, so he's free to call me for advice. Not that he'll need it though. Plus, he's gonna be working closely with State."

"He's got to pull his weight," said Vinick sternly, conspicuously glossing over Josh's declarations that he would be around to help Sam. "My guys are working at capacity on this; they can't carry an inexperienced, or distracted, acting White House COS."

Josh paused a moment and considered his words carefully.

"Mr. President, Mr. Secretary," he began slowly. "Do you think for a second that I would have agreed to take leave if I had any doubt that the White House would be the best hands while I was gone?"

"Josh, I don't really get the impression you have much of a choice about taking leave," said Vinick.

"Watch it Arnold," said Santos defensively. Vinick glanced apologetically at Josh, who just nodded quietly.

"I was shot in the chest," he said candidly. "Leo McGarry had a massive heart attack. CJ Cregg had a violent stalker. My wife survived a roadside bombing," his voice wavered a little bit on that last one, then he cleared his throat. "I've seen enough in my time at the White House to be acutely aware that something could happen at any time to take me out of the game. That's why I went and got Sam. There's no one I would trust more. He's the guy to do the job with me and he's the guy to take up the mantle if I can't do the job."

"That's good enough for me," said Santos resolutely. He turned to Vinick. "Sam will be in on cabinet meetings going forward. We've still got Josh for another month, but in the meantime, we'll be preparing for a smooth transition."

"Ok," said Vinick, not sure that he was entirely convinced. But perhaps Josh's judgement was sound enough that he could give Sam Seaborn the benefit of the doubt. In any case, if the president was convinced, that was the end of the discussion.

The president stood, followed by the other two.

"Thank you, Mr. Secretary," said Santos.

"Thank you, Mr. President," replied Vinick.

Josh and the president walked out together.

"Thanks for that, sir," said Josh when they were in the hall headed back toward the Oval Office.

Matt smiled and nodded. "I'm not gonna lie, I would feel better if it was you," he began. "But if you say Sam is ready, I trust you."

Josh bit his lower lip.

"Sam is ready," he began. "But if you're concerned, I can come up with something else."

"Something else?"

"Delay the surgery," said Josh quickly. "Maybe until after the election; they could do it in January, after the Inauguration and the State of the Union. Yeah, that could work; maybe that should have been the plan all along-"

"Josh!" snapped Santos, stopping abruptly. They were just outside of the Oval Office; he glared at his Chief of Staff. Ronna looked up at them uncomfortably from her desk. The president cleared his throat and straightened his jacket. "Let's talk about this inside," he said calmly.

Josh realized he'd said far more than he'd meant to; in fact, he'd said more than he even realized he'd been feeling. He nodded quietly and followed the president into the Oval.

"I apologize, Mr. President," he said softly.

"Firstly," said Matt. "Under absolutely no circumstances is delaying your surgery an option here."

"I don't really know where that came from," said Josh honestly.

"Josh, I need to ask you this, and I'm sorry if you don't like hearing it," began the president in a very serious tone. Josh looked up at him. "Your head's in a good place, right?"

"Sir?"

"It's fine to be nervous," Matt continued. "I'd think you were weird if you weren't nervous. But if it's something a little more than that, you'd let me know, right?"

"Yes, Mr. President," said Josh firmly.

"Good," replied Santos. "Look, I don't know if I've made this clear enough, because I'm not always sure where the line is about getting into your private business, but you need to know that I'm pretty damn worried about this too, and mostly for reasons having nothing to do with the campaign or the White House."

"We can't not worry about the campaign or the White House, Mr. President," Josh protested. "We're losing ground in every swing state, our own party's Congress is treating us like a lame duck administration, and we have several extremely complicated international situations to manage and negotiate at the same time. I appreciate the concern, but if you're spending any serious time worrying about me, I wouldn't be doing my job if I didn't advise you to stop that immediately."

"Dammit Josh," snapped the president. "You know, there's a kind of smugness in that martyr talk."

"Call it whatever you'd like sir," Josh countered. "I'm not trying to be a martyr; I'm trying to be honest."

The president was genuinely upset now. "Alright, Josh, you want an honest conversation," he began. "Let's be honest. Do you think Sam Seaborn spends any mental energy worrying about you instead of the campaign or running the White House? Honestly?"

"Sir, I-" Josh started. He knew he was fairly trapped now; this conversation would go until it reached an uncomfortable end.

"If he comes in here, as acting Chief of Staff while his best friend is recovering from major surgery, can you honestly tell me his eye will be 100% on the ball?"

"Yes!" Josh snapped. "Because he's a professional and he knows how important this is. I'm not saying he won't worry, but he understands what he has to do; we've talked a lot about it."

"Have you talked about what happens if it's not just _acting_ Chief of Staff he has to be?!" The president was now raising his voice. "Did you have _that_ conversation with him? Because, guess what Josh? _That's_ what Vinick's worried about! Not that Sam's too green with foreign policy, but that if you die on the table, the only guy we've groomed to step into your role is gonna be too sick with grief to do everything that'll be asked of him!"

Josh was speechless; it wasn't a feeling he was accustomed to.

For his part, Matt felt disgusted with himself; he hadn't meant to say any of that to Josh. Now, looking at his friend and closest advisor, he felt so ashamed. The last thing he ever wanted to do was make cynical calculations about or contingency plans for Josh's death.

Josh took a deep breath. "Why didn't he say that in the meeting just now?" he asked very quietly.

"Because he told me in private first," Matt explained. "And I told him in no uncertain terms that if he said that to you, I'd expect his resignation by the end of the day." Josh stared off at the wall with his mouth open, his thoughts racing.

"You shouldn't have done that," he said softly. "He's not totally out of line to wonder about that."

Matt took a deep breath. "I told him that if anything like that happens, this whole administration will be sick with grief." He paused and waited until Josh looked him in the eye. "Including the president," he said almost at a whisper. "I understand that we all have an important job to do, and that it has to be done, no matter what happens, but you can't ask me not to care about you."

"I'm sorry," said Josh.

"It's alright," Matt replied. He took a deep breath and sat down, motioning for Josh to do the same. "Anyway, I guess I've said my peace on that, so we'll move on."

"Yes, sir," said Josh.

"This midwest trip," began the president. "The plan is still that you'll be there the first three days, then fly back to DC?"

"Yeah," said Josh. "The emissions standards bill looks like it'll come to a vote around then; I'm gonna be here to put out fires with labor and hope to keep enough of our people on board. We need that win."

"Are you planning on seeing Donna's family in Wisconsin?"

"Unless you can get me out of it somehow," Josh started, hoping to diffuse the last of the tension with a joke. "Start a war maybe? Throw me a military prison somewhere? You can say I was planning a coup."

"That bad, huh?" said the president with a laugh.

Josh laughed and nodded, relieved to have moved onto more trivial conversation topics.

* * *

That afternoon, Donna was having lunch with Josh in his office. They tried to meet for lunch most days, though their busy schedules didn't always allow it. She leaned back on his couch as she dug into her box of Chinese take-out. He was at his desk, reading over some memos as he ate.

"I talked to my mom today," said Donna, getting his attention immediately. He looked up at her. "I told her."

Josh stood up and walked over to the couch. He sat down next to Donna and wrapped his arm around her. She leaned in to him.

"How did it go?" he asked carefully.

"It could have been better, but it could have been worse," she replied. "She felt bad of course. We started to get into it about some of the usual things, but she backed off."

"I hate to think that I get between you and your family," said Josh soberly.

"You don't," Donna replied staunchly. She glanced at his food container and reached into it with her chopsticks taking a mouthful for herself. Josh smiled and kissed the top of her head.

"Donna," he began. She took a second bite of his food and looked up at him.

"Hmmmm?" she mumbled.

"When all this is over," he started. "What do you say we go away for a little while?"

"Where?" Donna asked.

"Wherever you want," Josh started. "I thought maybe a week or ten days before I come back to work."

Donna smiled. "I'd like that."

Josh and Donna's honeymoon had been cut short; after just one day and night in Northern California, Josh was on a red-eye flight back to DC when a security breach at a US Embassy in South America threatened to launch a major international crisis. They hadn't managed to take a true vacation together since before the inauguration. Donna suspected he wasn't serious, but it would be fun to daydream.

"Where should we go?" Josh asked.

"Paris," she replied almost without hesitation.

"Paris?"

"Paris."

"Isn't that a little cliche?" Josh teased. "And we've both been there before."

"We've been there as chiefs of staff on state visits," said Donna. "I want to go with you. I don't care that it's a cliche. It'll be romantic. We'll see the Louvre and the Eiffel Tower and Notre Dame and we'll walk along the Seine. We can go to that bridge where you leave a lock and throw the keys into the river. We'll drink a lot of really nice wine and eat a lot of really nice food. It'll be perfect."

"Alright then," said Josh. "Paris it is."

"I'm holding you to this," said Donna excitedly. She stood up from the couch and went to his computer. He got up and stood behind her.

"You don't have to hold me to it," he said. "I'm serious. Let's book the flights right now."

"Way ahead of you," she said, pulling up a travel website. "When should we go? When you're well enough to travel, but before you need to come back to work." She started punching dates in late July into the flight search tool.

"Try like the 20th or so," Josh suggested.

"Here's one that leaves the night of the 21st," said Donna, clicking on it. "Now, return flights? How long should we stay?"

"I've gotta be back and ready to go for the Convention the first week of August, so let's do like eight days," said Josh, pointing at the monitor. "Here, let's take that one back to DC on the 29th." Donna selected it and turned to him, giggling a little bit.

"This is fun," she said. "It takes me back."

"Takes you back?"

"Just nostalgia for all the times I booked your travel arrangements," said Donna. "And put up with you changing your mind seven or eight times. This is much more fun." She turned and looked at him. "Let's do it for real sometime, okay?"

Josh's grin widened. "Donna," he started. "Let's do it for real right now."

"Don't tease me," she said, sounding a little annoyed.

"Hit the button," said Josh. He reached into his wallet and pulled out his credit card. "I mean it."

Donna thought for a split second that she couldn't remember ever feeling this elated and excited. The idea of this trip, a week in a romantic place with Josh, but more importantly, something real and concrete to look forward to on the other side of his surgery, was suddenly everything to her. Of course she had felt this elated and excited before; she'd felt that way very recently. Thinking about that was still painful, but now for the first time since her short pregnancy, she seemed to remember that it was possible to feel this way again, to feel content with the present moment, and something other than dread about the future.

She was about to click on "Book Travel", when Josh stopped her.

"Wait," he said. Her heart sank. She started feeling very angry with him very quickly. How could he not see what backing out now would do to her?

"Are you serious?" she asked, not trying to hide her disappointment. Josh didn't meet her gaze.

"One thing," he said, determined. He reached over her shoulder and took the mouse. Donna's smile returned as she watched him change the tickets to first class, then confirm the reservation. "We're going to Paris, baby!" he said. She turned around, took his face in her hands and kissed him.

* * *

The staff in the communications bullpen was suddenly transfixed on the various TV screens.

"Just announced," began an anchor. "Later this month, Fox News will air an exclusive interview with Carl LeRoy from the maximum security facility in southern Virginia. Interviews of this kind are extremely rare, but a deal has been worked out between Fox producers, LeRoy's attorneys and DOC officials. The interview will tape a few days ahead of time, then air as a part of a Sunday night special. For more information, we go live to-"

Lou turned the TV off, generating groans from some of the interns and assistants.

"That's enough, people," she called out, seizing control of the room as she often did so skillfully. Amy, who had been in the bullpen reviewing a briefing transcript in preparation for a meeting on the Hill, turned to her.

"We should talk to Josh," Amy said, agitated. "They're probably gonna try to get him to do an interview for this; he shouldn't. If it had been Dateline or CNN like they thought it might be, I'd say consider it, but no way with Fox. We gotta go find him."

"No," said Lou. "I wanna talk to Sam first."

"Why?"

"Trust me," she said. Amy didn't follow, but figured that the issue of Josh giving an interview fell under the jurisdiction of communications, so she let it be. Beyond the interview question, she was worried about him; it infuriated her that the scumbag who did that to him was being given a platform like this. She followed Lou down the hall to Sam's office and the pair of them barged in.

"Did you see?" Lou asked.

"Yes," said Sam soberly.

"Has Josh seen it?" Amy asked.

"I don't know," said Sam. "He was having lunch with Donna then had to go straight to the OEOB for that meeting with the Vice President; I think he was running late."

"Sam, is this going to be a problem?" Lou asked, very directly. Amy looked up at her, a bit confused.

"What do you mean, a problem?" Sam asked.

"Don't make me say it," said Lou.

Sam stood up and put his hands on his hips. "I'm afraid you're going to have to say it, because I have no idea what you're talking about. At least I hope I have no idea, because I would hate to think you mean what I think you mean."

"Is he going to lose it over this?" Lou snapped.

"You're not serious," said Amy blankly.

"Lose it?" said Sam, his expression turning very serious. "Where do you come by the nerve to say a thing like that?"

"I'm not trying to be insensitive, but if this is going be an issue, I have to know about it," Lou argued. "For his sake as much as anyone else's, we have to be ready to be ten steps ahead of any story like that."

"You have no idea what you're talking about," said Amy harshly.

"Yes, ex-girlfriends are the best source of information about a person's mental health, so I'm reassured now," Lou shot back. Amy was furious. She cared deeply about Josh, even though she had long since realized why any romance between them could never work. They both found that being friends and colleagues suited them much better; in fact they rather liked each other better this way. But because of their history, she knew all about the scars on both his body and his mind from Rosslyn. And she couldn't stand to hear her friend talked about in this manner.

"Lou, that was completely out of line," Sam snapped. "This whole thing is out of line."

"Alright then," she started. "Sam, if it's so out of line, tell me once and for all that it's not true. I will apologize and never bring it up again."

"That what's not true?" Sam scoffed.

"That he had PTSD."

An uncomfortable silence and tension filled the room.

"There were rumors," Lou began. "In and around Washington. It was never confirmed, because you all know damn well that they never would have allowed someone with that serious of an illness to advise the president. He would have been finished. But he had Leo McGarry, and since Leo McGarry managed to hide a rehab stint for a good couple of years, he was a useful friend to have."

"How dare you," said Sam, quietly and icily. Saying or even implying anything negative about Leo was a line most of the staff knew never to cross.

"Could something like this trigger him?" she probed, taking Sam's failure to deny the claim as enough confirmation. "I'm on his side, ok? I don't want him to be embarrassed or outed or criticized or anything; I just want to be prepared. I want him to be prepared! It's miserable and it's not fair and it says something awful about the world we live in, but the White House Chief of Staff _cannot_ have a mental health crisis. This presidency would not survive a scandal like that and how do you imagine Josh would feel about that?"

"Enough!" Sam shouted. "Leave this alone, Lou."

"Sam, I'm sorry if I'm being too blunt about it," she said. "But-"

"He said leave it alone!" Amy snapped.

"Josh is the President's Chief of Staff," said Sam, a bit more in control now. "Nothing personal is going to get in the way of doing his job effectively. Ever. If anyone, on this staff or in the press-room implies otherwise, you'll refer them to me."

Lou nodded and left the office quietly. Amy lingered for a second, but realized there wasn't much more to say and left Sam alone. As he sat in his office, a seed of doubt crept into his mind. What if Lou had a point? Was he prepared for this? They didn't talk about it much, but he knew it wasn't easy for Josh hearing about people supporting Carl LeRoy, and that would only get worse once his face and voice were dominating the cable news cycle after this special aired. Why did this have to be happening now, he wondered angrily.

* * *

Late that evening, Josh found himself outside the State Department Headquarters building. He went back and forth about whether or not this was a good idea, but ultimately decided it was the right thing to do. He hedged his bets that Vinick hadn't gone home yet, and appreciated that being who he was gave him fairly broad privilege to show up unannounced at the offices of very important people and expect to be able to talk to them.

When he reached the Secretary's outer office, his assistant seemed hesitant to admit him, but Josh was insistent.

"Josh Lyman to see you, Mr. Secretary," she said nervously into the intercom.

"Send him in," replied Arnold Vinick in a fairly friendly tone. Josh nodded in thanks to the assistant and proceeded into the office.

"I was just getting ready to call it a night," said Vinick when Josh entered. "What can I do for you?"

"The President told me what you really meant this morning," he replied abruptly. Vinick's expression became serious; he looked a bit embarrassed.

"Josh, please know I didn't mean any disrespect," he said.

"I know that," said Josh. "I'm not angry or upset about it."

"It's not a bad thing that people care a lot about you," said Vinick.

"Sam is like my brother," Josh began. "I know I might be asking a lot of him. But he'll rise to it; that's who he is."

"I haven't had much chance to work directly with him," Vinick started. "But it's the president's decision and he trusts your judgement."

"Mr. Secretary," Josh began. "I have no intention of leaving this to Sam. I'm coming back from this. I don't have a choice now; I've just promised my wife that I'm taking her to Paris when I'm back on my feet." He said that last part with a smile.

Vinick smiled warmly, but on the inside, he felt a pang of sadness. He decided not to bring up how he and his wife had planned a dream trip to Rome to celebrate the end of her last round of chemo. He also wouldn't mention how angry he remained with himself to this day that they hadn't just taken that damn trip immediately once the doctors told them she wasn't responding, rather than watch her continue to suffer through miserable treatments that ultimately did nothing to extend her life. No, mentioning any of that would serve no other purpose than gratuitous cruelty, he thought. So he just smiled.

"That's nice, Josh," he said sincerely. "She deserves that."

"She does," Josh marvelled. "She really does."

After a bit of a pause, Josh cleared his throat to speak again.

"Mr. Secretary," he said. "Arnold. I need to ask you a favor."

"Ok," Vinick replied, noting that Josh's expression had turned serious again.

"Don't let them lose sight of the work we have to do," said Josh soberly. "I'm not asking you to make sure they campaign at full strength; I know that's a boundary you've always set and I respect that, but we've still got a country to run. Don't let them forget that."

"Josh," Vinick started, but Josh wasn't finished.

"Even the president," he said. "I know they care about me. I think I try to minimize that so that I won't feel guilty, but on some level I know that isn't fair. They can all do it, they can all go on without me if that have to, but it won't be easy, and they might need someone to help them. Especially Sam. I'm telling you, he can be great, he could be better than I've ever been. But he'll need help, especially in the beginning. He helped me more than I can say in those first days and months when I had no idea how I was gonna do this without Leo. I know you can't be expected to do a lot, but just talk to them sometimes, maybe? Remind Sam that there was no one else I trusted more than him to take this on, remind the president that I've always believed in him, and that he made me proud at every step. Would you do that for me?"

"I hope I won't have to," said Vinick quickly. "But of course I will."

"Thank you," said Josh.

Arnold Vinick smiled sadly. Jed Bartlet's pitbull was a really good man.


	6. Chapter 6

**So, this chapter is a little shorter. I ran into a rough case of writer's block, but I had a point in the plot I needed to get to with this, so hopefully that won't happen again. Thanks again for all the support and the kind reviews! Please let me know what you think! This chapter ends on a bit of a cliff-hanger, so I promise to try and get the next one up as soon as possible so you aren't left wondering too long.**

 **Also a quick note and reiteration of my general medical realism disclaimer: this chapter makes some reference to Jed Bartlet's MS (in the series, we see him using a cane in the library flash-forward that takes place about a year before this story), and Josh's PTSD. In both cases, the descriptions are meant to feel authentic, but may not be super medically accurate. Since MS and PTSD are both very real and serious things that impact people's lives significantly, I did try to write about them respectfully. If anyone has more specific knowledge and feels I've badly or egregiously misrepresented the way our characters experience these illnesses, please let me know.**

 **Enjoy!**

It was a very early morning flight out to Madison. The President and First Lady had a full first day of campaigning scheduled for what would be an important visit to the GOP-leaning swing state. In forty-eight hours in Wisconsin, they would hit three colleges, the state capitol, a prominent police captain's retirement party, two churches, and half a dozen family-owned dairy farms. Once they finished in Wisconsin, it would be off to Chicago for a glamorous fundraiser, then another packed two-day schedule of rallies and town-halls in Indiana before finally returning to Washington. As the first couple, their staff and the press corps filed onto Air Force One just before three in the morning, everyone felt the enormous weight of the high expectations for this whirlwind trip.

Josh reviewed the latest draft of the event schedule one last time before giving Lou the okay to distribute the official itinerary to the press. The President, unlike his predecessor, was never overly captivated by the romance of late night, racing-the-horizon flights, so he quietly took his seat and hoped to steal an additional hour or two of sleep before the madness began. The First Lady did the same. Josh and Donna sat together and fastened their seatbelts for takeoff.

"You should try to get some sleep," Donna said to him quietly. He looked exhausted, but his trusty backpack was there with him, stowed safely for take-off but close at hand, and filled with his laptop, schedules, memos and briefing materials ready to be devoured once the colonel gave the ok.

"No rest for the wicked, Donnatella," he said with a dull smile.

"Then I guess you're screwed," she replied, sensing he was egregiously fishing for a compliment as he often did. He made a mocking hurt expression, and she smiled triumphantly.

"Don't you have any work to do?" he asked. "What does Mrs. Santos pay you for?"

"Being so efficient that I take care of everything during human hours," she shot back without skipping a beat.

"You ready for all this?" Josh asked her. The campaign team had drafted Donna into service as the resident Wisconsin-expert for this trip. She would introduce the President and First Lady at several of the events and be quite visible. As a spokesperson on the first campaign, Donna had proven very capable and people liked her. And since the First Lady was so popular, it made a great deal of sense to feature Helen and her office as prominently as possible.

"I'm excited for it," she began. "Especially the stop at UW. I used to tell myself I'd only ever want to show my face there again if I made something of myself. I know that sounds dumb, but I'd be lying if I said I didn't enjoy the idea of introducing the President there."

Josh looked at her reassuringly. He wished he could convince her that she'd made something incredible of herself many years ago and that she should go anywhere she wanted with her head held high. But he knew that she harbored lingering insecurities about her education and the path her career had taken. And he never wanted to patronize her; the fact that he'd graduated from Harvard and Yale loomed quietly below the surface in any conversations they had on the subject, rendering him fairly unqualified to convincingly reassure her that it wasn't important.

"You're going to be great," he said. Donna pulled something out of her purse, a notebook. Josh didn't recognize it. "What's that?"

She opened it up and showed him pages worth of carefully copied and phonetically spelled French words and phrases. He smiled.

"I've been studying," she said. "I'm just going to practice a little before I fall asleep."

The plane began to approach the runway.

"I called the airline," he said. "I ordered us a bottle of Krug for the flight out there," he bragged. "Not just the cheap prosecco they usually pour, the good stuff."

"Hmmmm," she said, purposefully sounding unimpressed. "How about the way back? Does your awesome clout get us good booze for both ways?"

"Can't have it on the way back," he said smugly.

"Why not?" she asked. "You're not important enough, right?"

"No," said Josh, shaking his head. He leaned closer to her and whispered. "I plan on doing my husbandly duties when we're there; you're going to be pregnant on the return flight." He made eye contact with Donna for a second, then she burst out laughing.

"Husbandly duties?!" she cackled. He started laughing too. "Oh my God, I cannot believe you just used the phrase 'husbandly duties'. You are too ridiculous for words sometimes, Joshua Lyman."

As the plane took off, Josh kept smiling, thinking about how deeply in love with Donna he was. It didn't devastate him when she made fun of him, the way it often had with old girlfriends. She could casually call him ridiculous when he deserved it, but she never made him feel ridiculous. When the plane was solidly in the air, she leaned into him.

"Do you think it'll happen again?" she asked quietly. He knew there had been a risk in talking casually, even jokingly about getting pregnant again. He had wondered if it was too soon for that, but he was relieved that she didn't seem too upset by it.

"Yes, I do," he said confidently. "We did it once, we can do it again."

"It was so hard to do it once though," she said.

"I know," he said. "But it did happen. And I believe it's gonna happen again."

Donna turned her attention back to her notebook and started drilling herself on elementary French. Josh pulled out his laptop and listened to her quietly recite. Donna's eyes started to grow heavy, and she leaned into his chest, listening happily to the steady rhythm of his heart as she started to doze off. She treasured going to sleep to that sound.

"Bonne nuit ma chérie," Josh whispered, remembering the phrase fairly accurately from his few semesters of college French, but mangling the nasal aspect of the pronunciation.

* * *

Late that afternoon, after several successful events, the Santos team arrived at a large progressive church where the President was to give a speech on his plans to create green infrastructure jobs. Wind energy was growing in Wisconsin, but a large subset of voters worried about job security as environmental regulations were strengthened in other important industries.

When the presidential motorcade arrived at the church, Josh took a deep breath. He would never admit it, but after nearly twenty hours without sleep, he was exhausted. Campaign mode was getting harder for his body to tolerate. He tried unsuccessfully to repress a yawn as the car slowed to a stop.

"You gonna make it there, Josh?" the president teased.

"Of course," Josh replied as Matt began to follow suit.

"Damn it, you shouldn't have done that," he yawned. "It's contagious you know; that's a real thing."

"Sorry, sir," Josh said with a slight smile. "Just for the love of God, don't do it in front of any cameras. Better to get it out of your system before we get out of the car."

"Well it's go-time now," he said as an agent opened the door for him. Josh let himself out the other side.

"Go get 'em, Mr. President," he said energetically, closing his suit jacket. The crowd outside the church was huge and nearly bursting at the barricades. Josh glanced around nervously. It was mostly supporters, but there were a handful of right-wing slogans on homemade posters being waved about.

One stopped him in his tracks.

A group of relatively young people wearing matching t-shirts with a church name and logo held aloft a large sign that read "Free Carl" in big bold letters, along with the scripture citation "Luke 15:7" in elegant cursive. Against his better judgement, Josh fell back from the President's entourage and walked closer to the rope line to get a better view of them.

He made eye contact with a member of the group, a young man with clean cut blonde hair and a cross necklace. Recognition flashed in the young man's eyes; Josh tried to conceal the raging mess of emotions he felt swirling around inside of him. He wanted to say something, but he couldn't imagine what, but he found he couldn't look away from this person's gaze.

Suddenly, Josh realized how far behind his own group he'd fallen. Just about everyone, with the exception of a few agents, was already inside the building. The First Lady and her staff, including Donna, was gone too.

Josh's heart started to pound. Trailing behind the President along a crowded rope-line. This was how it had started before. He was travelling back in time. His mouth began to feel dry and bitter and he felt light-headed as sirens started to wail in the deepest wells of his brain. His hand was sweaty as he grabbed his chest protectively, wrinkling his tie. He could remember the warm and viscous feel of his blood leaving him while he waited, alone and terrified and in the worst pain of his life.

"Josh!"

He didn't hear anything but the sirens.

"JOSH!" Sam grabbed his shoulder and finally got his attention. The crowd, now beginning to disburse a little bit, was staring at him. When he turned to Sam and reoriented himself to his surroundings, he felt mortified. "Come on," Sam said gently. "Let's go inside."

Josh nodded and slowly began to follow him, but he glanced back once more at the group of LeRoy's supporters, especially the young blonde-haired man. He looked back at Josh with sympathy and a slight twinge of shame, but Josh only interpreted it as pity, which was the worst thing of all.

Sam, realizing what had happened, wanted to tear the group a new one when he noticed them, but held his composure. The most important thing was to get Josh inside.

"I'm sorry," Josh mumbled once they were in the church vestibule.

"It's okay," said Sam, trying to calm him. "The sanctuary is set up like an auditorium; we have a backstage area and like a green room setup. Donna is about to go and introduce him."

"Good," said Josh, following behind, trying to regain his focus. When they reached the green-room (in actuality, it was one of several Sunday school-classrooms), Josh grabbed a bottle of water and stood against the wall, closing his eyes briefly, while Sam's glare silently warned everyone else in the room to mind their own business.

"I'm ok," said Josh quietly to Sam. "Thank you." Sam nodded. Together, they went backstage.

President Santos was standing in the wings, watching Donna as she primed the crowd on the topics of today's speech. He turned to Josh and Sam.

"Everything ok?" he whispered.

"Everything's fine, sir," said Sam. Josh nodded in agreement.

"Ladies and gentleman" Donna began. "The President of the United States."

The crowd rose to its feet as Matt strode out, waving and smiling in excellent form. Josh was proud of him, but he had eyes only for Donna. She shined as she stood up there.

When the President began his speech and Donna came backstage, Josh threw his arms around her. "You were wonderful," he whispered.

"My parents are out there," she said, smiling. "They never said they planned on coming but they're here in like the third row. God, I was so nervous."

"You were perfect," Josh insisted. They quietly turned their attention to the President as he spoke.

* * *

"If you have any headaches, call the office right away and have them check your urine again," Abbey Bartlet instructed her youngest daughter over the phone. She couldn't help it. She was that deadly combination of a physician and a mother. This was the fifth time one of her babies was having a baby, but she was every bit as hyper-vigilant of every detail of Zoey's well-being as she'd been the first time, when Liz was expecting Annie. This never got less exciting and it never got less nerve-wracking.

Jed heard that and cringed. He knew Abbey was just being attentive, and he certainly valued Zoey's health above all else, but he worried sometimes that by regularly bringing up things that could go wrong, Abbey was needlessly frightening her. It had devastated him to watch over the months of her pregnancy, how her state of mind moved from delighted anticipation, to normal if not slightly high levels of worry and nervousness about impending parenthood, to a nearly debilitating terror and pervasive certainty that she couldn't possibly hope to be a good mother. She had finally found a bit of relief recently, but he wanted so badly to protect her from any of it.

"I will, Mom, don't worry," Zoey replied. A few weeks after reluctantly resuming her anxiety medication and working with her therapist, she was beginning to feel more like herself again. She still worried about the baby, but she wasn't as intensely sure that she was actively harming him by taking care of herself anymore, and that was a huge step for her.

Abbey wrapped up the phone call; both she and Jed sent their love and couldn't wait to see her when they were back in DC. Since leaving the White House, they maintained a home in the Capital, and they planned to spend much of the summer down there to spend time with Zoey and Charlie before and after the baby arrived. She was due the second week of June.

Today, the former first couple was preparing to fly from Manchester to Chicago for a few days. A liberal Chicago philanthropist was hosting a lavish dinner to support Santos' re-election campaign, which the Bartlets, among other very prominent Democrats planned to attend.

"I'm going to try it without the cane," said Jed, as he looked across the hallway, trying to mentally picture how long various walks at the event would be.

"Go right ahead and try, dear," said Abbey cooly. She knew it was futile. The tightness in his thighs lingered from his most recent relapse. He had regular physical therapy, but on the best days, he could only manage a few steps without the cane.

Jed studied the hallway again, pictured himself tripping over his feet and wiping out like he'd done the last time he tried, then found he'd rather changed his mind. "I'll try it later," he muttered, then strode confidently, aided by his cane, over to the chair across from Abbey.

"She sounded good today," he said carefully. They had each taken a turn talking to Zoey.

"Yeah, I think she's doing better," Abbey agreed. "And Charlie has really stepped up; he's been so supportive."

"I always knew he would," said Jed. "The only of my sons-in-law worth a damn."

"Vic's not so bad," said Abbey. Jed started to scoff but instead nodded in concession. Vic was no Charlie, but Jed, in spite of himself had come around to liking him. There was no need to bring up Doug; the old adage about saying nothing at all if one couldn't say anything nice seemed to apply.

After a pause, Jed's mind wandered to other subjects. "I hate Chicago," he muttered.

"No you don't," said Abbey. "It makes you sad because of Leo, but you don't hate it."

"It's cold like New England, but with none of the redeeming charm," Jed mocked, but he knew Abbey was right; she knew him far too well not to see past his posturing.

"Josh will be there," Abbey reminded him. Jed nodded and cleared his throat slightly.

"Should he be travelling like this?" he asked his wife nervously.

"I don't know all the details," said Abbey. "But based on what he and Donna have told me, no, he really shouldn't. Travelling is probably fine, but the campaign schedule can't be good for him. I'm sure they told him that."

"What the hell is Matt thinking letting him do it?" Jed scowled. "He's going to be operated on in three weeks for Christ's sake!"

"Josh has some say in this himself; he's a grown man," said Abbey.

"I never would have allowed it," Jed shot back.

"You would have had to order the Secret Service to break his legs to keep him off the campaign trail and you know it," she replied. "And even then, he probably would have wheeled himself along anyway."

"Maybe I can talk some sense into him when I see him," Jed began.

"Don't count on that," said Abbey. "Don't bombard him either; he's probably getting unsolicited advice from every direction. That wears people out and isn't always as helpful as it's meant to be."

"Says the woman who makes Zoey run through a daily preeclampsia signs checklist," Jed shot back.

"That's different," Abbey said defensively. "I'm her mother."

* * *

About halfway through the speech, Josh started to cough a little. He took a sip from his water bottle, but that didn't quite suppress it enough. Some stern glances from the campaign staff told him that he was making too much noise and could probably be heard on stage, so he excused himself out into the hallway. Donna and Sam were engrossed in the speech and didn't follow him; he'd be back in a few moments anyway.

Once in the hallway and freed from the obligation to stay quiet, Josh coughed harder and a bit louder, trying to get relief. The water wasn't helping. He started to feel even a little dizzy, so he loosened his tie and leaned against a wall.

"Is everything ok, Mr. Lyman?" asked one of the Secret Service agents.

"I'm fine," Josh gasped. The agent was not terribly convinced, but he kept his respectful distance.

Josh was coughing into the bend in his elbow, _according to CDC guidelines_ , he thought with a nervous laugh. When one wave of coughing subsided a bit, he picked his head up to take a deep breath. Josh then glanced down at his arm and to his horror saw splatters of blood on the sleeve of his light gray suit jacket. He knew he needed help.

He pushed himself into an upright position from the wall and took a few steps towards the agent who'd approached him before. When he tried to call out, his voice collapsed into an even more intense round of coughing, this time, even more blood came up.

Josh's ears felt like they were packed with cotton; he only vaguely heard the sound of urgent footsteps coming towards him. His feet became heavy and his vision started to get blurry. Without even realizing it, he was sinking to his knees.

"Get a medic!" yelled one of the agents. "Pitbull is down!"

 _Donna!_ Josh coughed loudly and painfully. _Where is Donna?!_ His anxious mind screamed. The sirens started up in his mind again.

"Clear a path, and get a medic to the west hallway!"

His eyelids started to feel as heavy as his feet did.

"Need an ambulance by the South door!"

He was lying on his back now; the floor was hard and cold.

"Someone go find Wisconsin and Princeton," barked a more senior agent. "Pitbull is down and I need a medic now!"


	7. Chapter 7

**-9/14 Update-**

 **I began work on the next chapter and wrote a scene that I felt really belonged here instead, so I've updated it. If you've already read this chapter and don't want to entirely re-read it, the new scene is inserted near the end, between line breaks and should be easy enough to spot. In it, there is a minor cannon/continuity change: Ainsley Hayes does not join the Santos administration as WH Counsel in this universe. I really want to demonstrate this rise of right wing populism (I won't call the Tea Party by name in this story, but their influence is felt) that we've seen over the last decade in its early stages here (my story takes place in 2010). We have some references to social media and the early days of major public figures using it (I even gave Josh a Twitter handle; I picture that he would have been initially into the idea, but hit some snag early on in his understanding of how to use it, and largely left Margaret to manage the account after a while, which she would do skillfully). I hope all this helps serve to place the story in its time authentically.**

 **Here's the next chapter! Hope that wasn't too awful with the cliff-hanger! Thanks so much for the reviews! Please let me know what you think!**

 **(again, this chapter gets into the medical stuff, so my general reminder that the medical stuff is pretty much entirely made up. I hope it sounds realistic enough, but there's not going to be any high degree of accuracy)**

 **Enjoy!**

Rachel reached into the refrigerator and pulled out a chilled bottle of white wine from the Loire Valley. She had cooked herself dinner from a new recipe her friend had sent her that she was excited to try.

She carried her plate over to the couch and set her wine glass on the coffee table using one of a kitchy set of coasters with American flag designs she'd picked up the last time she was in Washington. Sometimes she was fastidious about eating at the dining room table, even when she was alone, but not always. The early evening light crept into her condo from the large glass doors out to her porch. It had been one of the first truly hot and humid Florida days of the season. She sipped the wine and took a bite of her food, enjoying both thoroughly.

She reached for the remote and flipped the TV to catch the end of the evening news and the season finales of a few shows she liked. It was the middle of a commercial break; Rachel found the attack ads for Florida's primary elections annoying so she lowered the volume and turned her attention to her dinner.

When the news came back on, she paid fairly limited attention to it, leaving the volume low. Her mind wandered as she thought of some plans for the next few days. She thought perhaps she might go shopping or to see a movie tomorrow.

They gave a weather report; it would be sunny and hot the next several days.

Rachel glanced at her hands as she ate her food and decided she would repaint her nails after dinner; the maroon polish was starting to chip. Maybe light pink this time, she thought.

"And finally tonight, some news on the campaign trail out of Madison, Wisconsin this evening," began the news anchor.

Rachel's attention bounced back to the TV. Josh and Donna were on that trip, she knew. No matter what, it never got old to catch a glimpse of her son on TV. She turned the volume back up and watched eagerly, hoping to see him standing with the President.

"White House Chief of Staff Joshua Lyman was taken to the University of Wisconsin Hospital after collapsing at the President's speech in Madison this afternoon. No word on his condition at this time. Lyman, who is forty-eight, announced in February that he would take a leave of absence from the White House this summer to undergo surgery for a vascular issue. We'll likely have more on this developing story, so please join us for our Nightly News at 10:30 right before Jimmy Kimmel."

Rachel felt her stomach drop. A stock photo of Josh flashed on the screen with the caption, "COS Hospitalized", then the anchors finished their sign-offs and the news credits rolled.

Panicking, she reached for the phone and dialed Josh's cell; it went straight to voicemail. She tried Donna, but there was no answer.

She hung up and resisted dialing again immediately for what felt like half an hour, but was in truth about 90 seconds.

Still no answer, but this time she left a voicemail.

"Donna, it's Rachel," she began frantically. "I just heard on the news. I can't get Josh's phone, I don't know what's going on. What's happening? Please call me!"

When she hung up, she started running through the worst of what it could be. Had the artery ruptured? That was the worst case scenario the doctors had warned him about; if that happened, they'd said, he'd have to be rushed into surgery, but could bleed to death before that was even possible. It would be quite like the original injury from the shooting; the only reason he had a chance ten years ago was because George Washington in DC was an experienced high level trauma center. Rachel didn't know anything about the University of Wisconsin; it was probably a good hospital, but were they prepared for something like this? He was supposed to have this operation at Johns Hopkins University Medical Center, done by a world-class team of vascular and thoracic surgeons personally endorsed by Abigail Bartlet, Millicent Griffith and the current Surgeon General. How could whoever was on call at the time at the University of Wisconsin be as good?

She went to her computer, at first thinking about getting a flight to Wisconsin, probably via Chicago, she assumed. When she logged on, her Comcast home-screen had a thumbnail and headline, "Developing: Top Santos Staffer Rushed to ER". She clicked on it, but was frustrated to see it had very little additional information. The article was padded with general information about Josh, but something at the end of it troubled her.

 _Earlier this year, Lyman was briefly hospitalized for respiratory problems. Critics of the Santos Administration have already taken to social media to demand further information about the Chief of Staff's health. Conservative pundit Flynn Earnshaw tweeted:_

 _CoSLyman61 is making mentor #bartlet proud. MS-gate all over again? Trust this guy to run WH? #LyingLyman_

 _The White House has not yet issued a statement._

Rachel cringed. She didn't know or care much about social media; she honestly wasn't entirely certain what the term "tweeted" meant, but she knew well enough that an dig like that from Flynn Earnshaw, a dynamic rising star on Fox News, would kick off a wave of brutal attacks on Josh. He didn't disclose much about his health; his public announcement about his surgery had significantly understated how serious it was. Rachel remembered thinking that was a mistake at the time, but of course it wasn't her place to say.

Would this become a scandal? Of course, she didn't care nearly as much about that, not while she still didn't know what had happened to him or what kind of condition he was in. But it troubled her deeply to see him attacked like that.

Suddenly her phone rang. She picked it up on the first ring.

"Donna?!" she asked, exacerbated.

"No, Rachel, it's me," said her friend Suzanne on the other line. Rachel exhaled sharply. "I just saw on the news. What happened? Is Josh okay?"

"I don't know," said Rachel, choking back a sob when she said it. "I can't get him or my daughter-in-law on the phone."

"Do you want me to come over?" Suzanne offered. "I can drive you to the airport if you need to go up there."

"Thank you," said Rachel quietly. It would be a great relief to have someone to wait with. "I'll see you in a little bit; I want to get off the line in case he tries to call me." She wanted to think it would be Josh himself calling her to say he was fine, but the loudest, most frightened part of her brain told her it would be Donna calling with terrible news. She tried to think back to her most recent conversation with him. What had the last thing she said to him been? She couldn't remember for sure whether or not it was "I love you", and that devastated her.

"Of course," said Suzanne. "I'll be there in twenty minutes." They hung up and Rachel dialed Donna again.

On the last ring, Donna finally answered.

"Rachel," she said, sounding slightly winded. "I'm sorry I couldn't pick up before and that I didn't call you sooner. I was trying to get a hold of someone at Hopkins to send his records and they left me on hold forever, and I'm still finishing the registration stuff here, and no one who knows anything will talk to me, and they haven't let me see him and I, I- just-" Donna took a deep, shaking breath, and barely fought off collapsing into a sob. "I can't find the goddamn insurance card! Ok? I can't find it! I don't know why it's not in his wallet, but I can't find it!" Donna was trying in vain to talk both to Rachel and the hospital admissions clerk at the same time. "I'll send my assistant to the hotel to look for it, but in the meantime, can you just take my word for it that we're good for the bill? We flew here this morning on Air Force One; we're good for the bill, ok?!"

The clerk, a middle aged woman with a clipboard and a very strong perfume, was fairly accustomed to being lashed out at like that; she nodded with an emotionless and businesslike expression on her face. Rachel, hearing the exchange through the phone, felt like the wind had been knocked out of her; for Donna, always so sweet and even-keeled, to be frazzled and short-tempered like that, the situation had to be very bad.

"Donna, Honey," she said quietly and as calmly as she could manage.

"One second," said Donna. She turned to the clerk. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry; I know none of that is your fault. I'll get you the insurance information as soon as I can." The clerk nodded again and walked away, leaving Donna leaning on the wall in a hallway alone. She turned her attention back to her phone. "Rachel," she began again.

"What happened?" Rachel asked, trying to maintain some degree of composure.

"It was just a cough," said Donna. "He coughs sometimes; I didn't think anything of it. I'm not sure I even noticed. Oh my God, what the hell is the matter with me that I didn't notice!? He went out into the hallway during the speech and then a few minutes later, one of the agents came and got me. He'd coughed up a bunch of blood and passed out. They let me ride in the ambulance with him, but he was in and out the whole time and once we got here, they took him right back and wouldn't let me stay with him!"

"Did the artery rupture?" Rachel asked abruptly.

"They don't think so," said Donna quietly. "The doctor talked to me once when we first got here. She said if it had, there'd probably be a lot more blood coming up and his vitals weren't that bad. They took him for an angio like last time, but when they did, they made me sign a consent to take him straight to surgery if they get in there and see it's worse than they thought or if it ruptures while they're trying to do the cath. That was almost ninety minutes ago and no one has talked to me since."

"Donna, are you alone right now?" Rachel asked nervously. She was terrified and frantic herself, but she found herself so worried about Donna.

"Sam Seaborn came here with me," she said. "But he's talking to the President now; we left him to finish his speech so he wouldn't have found out for a while. He'll be really angry about that so I think Sam is getting his head bitten off. No one else is here right now. I've gotta get my assistant on the phone so she can find that card for me."

"You're in Madison, right?" said Rachel. "What about your parents? Why don't you get a hold of them? They could just be there with you."

"Oh God," Donna began. "They were at the speech. I forgot all about that; I saw them at the church, they were at the speech. I haven't even called my mom. She hasn't called me either though. This is on the news by now, and she hasn't called me or tried to just show up here."

Rachel regretted bringing it up; it seemed the mention of Donna's parents only agitated her more. "Listen, Donna," she began softly. "I'm going to try to get a flight, ok? It might take me a while, but I'll be there. Call me when you know anything more, ok?"

"I will, I promise," Donna replied quietly and hung up. She took a deep breath and tried to compose herself. Sam reappeared from further down the hall, looking worn out. He'd loosened his tie, rolled up his sleeves and long since ditched his jacket.

"Any news?" he asked, nervously. Donna shook her head wordlessly. Sam, sensing she was about to cry, pulled her into a hug and swallowed a lump in his own throat.

"What did the President say?" she asked.

"He's very pissed at me for not pulling him off the stage as soon as I learned what was going on," said Sam, matter-of-factly. "He wanted to come down here, but I talked him out of it; the Secret Service would want to clear out half the building and there's not really anything he can do. I promised to keep him updated."

"We can only do that if someone updates us," said Donna, somewhat bitterly.

* * *

"Mr. Lyman, I need you to try to relax," said an EMT sternly as they adjusted an oxygen mask over his face. The sirens-real this time and not just a figment of his anguished memory-screeched in his head like nails on a chalkboard. Donna was sitting next to him, holding his hand gently and trying to be calm.

It was impossible to relax; he couldn't breathe. He was coughing so hard, the muscles in his neck and chest were aching from the act of it. The sickening taste of his own blood filled his mouth as he started hacking painfully again. A wave of dizziness came over him, even though he was lying down and his eyelids got heavy again.

" _BP is falling," barked an EMT. "What's our ETA?"_

" _Five minutes to GW," called the driver. Josh was barely aware of anything but the explosive pain in his chest._

" _You hear that, Josh?" said the shaking voice of his friend. "Just a few more minutes you have to hold on. They'll take care of you, but you have to stay with us until they can, ok? Stay with me, just a couple more minutes."_

 _Josh tried to tighten his blood-soaked fingers around Sam's hand, just to give a little sign that he was listening, that he would do his best to hold on, but he was so weak that he hardly seemed to have any control over his body. Sam must have felt it though, because he squeezed back._

When Josh was conscious and aware again, Donna was gone. He was being wheeled quickly down a corridor. An oxygen mask was secure over his face, which helped a bit, but he could only manage to take short, shallow breaths. He glanced at his arm and saw that he had an IV in place; there was a heart monitor attached to his right index finger.

When they reached an exam room, a pair of CNAs started undressing him. He felt undignified but too weak and disoriented to object. When his chest was exposed, a nurse immediately appeared with an ultrasound probe.

" _Get that IV started NOW!" commanded an older nurse as they worked on cutting away his clothes and packing his wound with gauze._

" _I can't find a vein!" shrieked a much younger, nervous voice._

" _Try the back of his hand!"_

" _Won't that hurt him?!"_

" _For God's sake, he's got a hole in his chest!" snapped the older nurse. Josh was in agony. "You want to not hurt him? Get the damn IV started so we can get him on a morphine drip! They're gonna need a good line for anesthesia; I don't care where it is, just get it!"_

 _He barely noticed as they jabbed the thin skin on the back of his hand a few times before finding a vein._

 _A few minutes passed and Josh had found that the pain had stopped getting worse; it wasn't better, but it had stopped getting worse. He felt a warm sense of calm washing over him. He was dying, he thought; this was it._

 _He wasn't afraid, he was relieved. Sam and Toby and CJ and Leo and the President would understand, he told himself._

 _His mother probably wouldn't, but he was just too tired to fight anymore. He hoped she could forgive him._

"Ok, Mr. Lyman," began a doctor. "Good news; from the ultrasound, it looks like it's not a rupture; you've got some bleeding, but I think we can address it nonsurgically. We're going to the cath lab now. You seem pretty anxious, so I'm gonna give you a sedative."

Josh tried to nod, but his head felt too light to move. His eyes started to close again, almost involuntarily.

"He's too out of it," said the doctor to someone else in the room. "Get the wife to give consent." Josh wanted to object to him referring to Donna as "the wife", but when he opened his mouth, he was too breathless to form any words. Soon, he was moving again.

 _He needed to get out of this meeting, he thought, suddenly and urgently. He didn't belong here; he had to get to New Hampshire. To Nashua. It was probably a waste of time, but he told his Dad's old friend he would. His Dad was sick; a dumb little favor like this was easy enough to do. He didn't belong in this meeting anyway._

* * *

Sam and Donna had relocated to a waiting area. Donna had gotten in touch with her assistant, Claire, who was on her way to the hotel to find the insurance card and Helen Santos had called Donna to express her concern. It had now been over two hours since they'd arrived, but no one had come to update them. Donna was beginning to wonder nervously whether they would tell her if he had been taken to surgery, when suddenly, the doctor came down the hallway.

"Mrs. Moss-Lyman?" she called out. Donna stood up immediately and walked up to her. Sam followed anxiously. "Why don't we step in here?" she said gently, motioning to a small room off the main hallway. This made Donna's stomach twist into a knot. Were they being brought to a private space to be told something awful?

"What's going on?" Donna demanded once they sat down.

"We were able to stop the bleeding," said the doctor. "But that artery is in horrible condition," she added gravely. "What seems to have happened was a massive spike in blood pressure put a lot of stress on the weakest parts of the vessel. He's got a lot of scar tissue right before the left lung."

"A massive spike in blood pressure?" Sam asked nervously.

"On arrival, he was at 183/129," she elaborated. "That meets the criteria for a hypertensive crisis. Now, based on the history you gave, he runs high and is being treated for chronic hypertension, but a spike like that is very dangerous."

"What caused it?" Donna asked.

"It's hard to say," said the doctor.

"Donna," Sam said quietly. He felt miserable; why hadn't he taken this more seriously? "The protesters."

Donna's heart sank. "You don't think-"

"Yeah," said Sam abruptly. Donna met his gaze and saw the pained look on his face. She glanced back at the doctor.

"Nine and a half years ago," she began cautiously. "My husband was diagnosed with Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. He hasn't had a major episode in years, but he has suffered from flashbacks in the past. He might have experienced something like that today. I told them on the intake form that he takes 2mg of Xanax daily for it."

Sam bit his lip nervously. He hadn't know that Josh took psych meds. It somehow felt wrong to find out like this, like he'd invaded his friend's privacy in some terrible way.

"That might have contributed, but I can't say for sure that it caused the crisis," said the doctor cautiously. "Obviously, he has a very high stress job; he has chronic hypertension anyway; there were probably multiple factors."

"So, is he ok?" Donna blurted out. "You said you stopped the bleeding."

"He's doing ok," began the doctor. "The blood flow to the left lung is very poor right now, so we're going to keep giving him oxygen and respiratory therapy will assess him in the morning. I'm going to schedule a conference call with his surgical team at Johns Hopkins for tomorrow as well."

"Ok," said Donna. "When can I see him?"

"Give them about half an hour," began the doctor. "He's going to be brought up to a room on the telemetry floor, Room 806. The charge nurse of the floor and our director of security are coordinating with the Secret Service to work out protocol and logistics for that; he'll have a private room, of course."

"Thank you," said Donna.

"Thank you, Doctor," said Sam. She nodded professionally and walked away again.

* * *

A little while later, Donna was riding up the elevator to the eighth floor. Sam was on the phone with the President, and Donna had managed to persuade Rachel she didn't need to fly up. When she stepped off the elevator, she stopped at the nurses' station to ask directions. A Secret Service agent verified that she was his wife and walked her down the hall to Josh's room.

He smiled at her when she walked in. His face was tired and drawn and he was sporting a cannula in his nostrils. There was a tray of very unappetizing looking food in front of him. Donna pulled a chair up beside his bed and kissed his hand.

"I think this is supposed to be a ham sandwich," Josh began, making a face. "Do you think if I made a thing of wanting kosher, they'd bring me something edible?"

"They'd probably just bring you whatever that is with the pork taken off," said Donna with a little smile. It was reassuring to see him making jokes and complaining about the food. He took a deep breath and looked at her. It was clear from her face that she had been miserable with worry.

"I feel like a damn fool," he said quietly. She squeezed his hand.

"I'm just so relieved that you're ok," she said.

"I need to talk to the President," said Josh nervously.

"No, you need to rest," Donna insisted. "Sam is talking to him." Josh didn't argue; in fact, he was relieved to hear that Sam had taken some charge of the situation.

"Does my mother know about this?" he asked after a little while.

"She saw it on the news and called me," Donna explained. "I talked her down from booking a seat on the next flight to Chicago and train up here, but she's gonna want to talk to you at some point."

"On the news?" Josh asked nervously. Donna nodded. "Damn it."

"It'll be alright," said Donna. She squeezed his hand.

* * *

Ainsley Hayes did her best to suppress a scowl when the producer told her she would be with Flynn Earnshaw instead of the originally scheduled other guest. She couldn't stand him; his loud, obnoxious rhetoric and crazy conspiracy baiting was an embarrassment to everything she believed in. What was worse was that his kind of voice was gaining influence in her party, while her own career as a columnist and commentator had been stagnant the last few years.

So today, when she was appearing on a Republican leaning talk show, she hoped to make a strong representation for her brand of thoughtful conservatism and her vision for public discourse, where someone disagreeing with you didn't make them your enemy. Her time in the White House had made that one of her most cherished core beliefs.

The story about Josh Lyman getting sick at a campaign stop was dominating the afternoon, and initially, conservative commentators were having a field day with it. Ainsley herself was a staunch and outspoken critic of the Santos administration, but she wasn't going to let sleazy ad hoc attacks on an old friend and former colleague fly if she could help it.

Taking her seat in the studio, Ainsley closed her eyes patiently as they touched up her makeup and adjusted her microphone. Earnshaw, a stocky, fair haired man in his early thirties with a well tailored suit and bright red tie, sat opposite her and gave her a smug smile.

"And we're live in 5, 4,.." called the director. The host and moderator gave both guests a quick nod. The producer pointed at them. Ainsley smiled coolly; she had a natural talent with television that revealed itself the very first time she squared off with Sam Seaborn all those years ago.

"Welcome back to The Hot Seat, I'm Brett Thorson," began the host. "My guests kicking off the top of this hour are the host of Right Take airing weeknights at 10:30 right here on Fox News; he's been pretty busy this afternoon on Twitter but he's kindly made time for me, Flynn Earnshaw." Earnshaw nodded smugly and the host continued. "And to my left-not that kind of left, don't worry-columnist and former deputy White House Counsel, the always lovely Miss Ainsley Hayes."

"Thank you having me, Brett," said Ainsley. "Always great to be here."

"I'm just going to dive right into what's turned out to be the big story of today," Brett started. "The AP is reporting that Santos Chief of Staff Joshua Lyman is now in stable condition and expected to be released from the University of Wisconsin Hospital in Madison in the next day or two following what's being described as 'an internal bleeding episode'. It sounds like it is related to this mysterious 'vascular issue' he's taking the summer off to have surgery on. Ainsley, I'm gonna say ladies first on this one, since you worked with Lyman for a time. Your thoughts?"

"My thoughts are that I'm glad to hear he's alright," said Ainsley. "I haven't talked to him in a long time, but this had to be a frightening ordeal. And knowing, as we do, that he has some health problems, I was worried about him. Josh is a good guy. I disagree with him on just about everything, and he can be a little full of himself, but he's a decent person and a dedicated public servant."

"Well, of course she'd say that," said Flynn, partly under his breath.

"Excuse me?" said Ainsley.

"One of your Bartlet-buddies, who takes meetings in the situation room, has something wrong with him that makes him collapse in church hallways, and the response from Ms. RINO is 'Bless his heart, I'm sure glad he's ok'", replied Flynn, crudely mocking Ainsley's accent. She smiled to strengthen her composure; it was far too early in the interview to raise her voice.

"Well, I've never been called a RINO before," she began in a chipper voice. "But my father always said, there's a first time for everything. And who told you that 'Bartlet-buddies' was the name of our secret club? Was it Toby Ziegler? Gosh-darn-it, we warned him, if he ever leaked anything important, he wasn't allowed to come bowling with us!" She turned to the host who indulgently laughed at her joke and then she straightened her face. "Brett, to state or suggest or otherwise imply that anything underhanded or nefarious is afoot because Josh Lyman couldn't breathe and went to the hospital this afternoon, is frankly, absurd."

"It's both underhanded and nefarious if he's got some serious health problem he's not being honest about," said Flynn. "We don't know how serious this is! Who knows what he's hiding? I've heard rumors even that he's got mental problems, that he cracked after the shooting ten years ago! Of course he's keeping all this to himself! And where would he have learned to do that? Look, we know the guy is a liar; he worked for Bartlet! That was practically a job requirement!"

"He's not a liar," Ainsley snapped; she knew he had just called her a liar too, but she summoned all of her will power not to take that bait. "And he has been honest about his health problems. He made a full statement and took questions from the White House press corps months ago to explain that he's having surgery."

"Ainsley, if I may," interjected Brett. "That press conference was pretty vague; there's a lot we don't know about this 'vascular issue' and what his prognosis is or even how big of a deal the surgery is. Like is it a 'he could die' thing or is it just gonna be fine after next month? We don't know. When we do know how much influence Josh Lyman has inside this White House, how heavily the president relies on him, isn't it reasonable to want some assurance that he's not gonna just not be able to breathe one day?"

"I'm sure he and his wife would enjoy that," said Ainsley. "As far as I know, his mother's still alive; I bet she would also be glad to have 'some assurance that he's not gonna just not be able to breathe one day'. You're talking about a real person, and that kind of callousness is a bad look, even on cable news. We have no reason to think he's not dealing with this appropriately; we know he's having surgery and since they've known for a while, his deputy, Sam Seaborn has had time to prepare to act as Chief of Staff while he recovers."

"Sam Seaborn running the White House," began Earnshaw with a condescending grin. "There's one of the better jokes I've heard in a long time."

Ainsley wasn't entirely sure why, but it really, really made her angry to hear a dig at Sam. "Sam Seaborn is a man of incredible talent and integrity," she shot back.

"So much talent and integrity he literally did worse than a dead guy when he ran for Congress," laughed Earnshaw. Brett laughed along too. "And then was too much of a coward to limp back to the White House, where they would have welcomed him back to his speech writing gig with open arms, so he stays out in California for four years as a corporate hack lawyer, until Lyman goes and walks him back by the hand. Yeah, that's the guy we want next to Santos if World War III breaks out and they have to launch the nukes; it'll be pussy liberal flower hour!"

"Hey, let's watch the language," Brett chimed in, laughing. "We're on basic cable, remember?"

"Sorry Brett, but you get my point."

"I do indeed."

Ainsley was seething, but she kept her cool.

"You can say liberal flower hour all you want," she began. "But Matthew Santos served his country in the armed forces, and neither of you did, so if God-forbid, he ever has to make decisions like that, I doubt he'll find it quite as hilarious as the pair of you seem to."

"It ain't his country," said Flynn, again, partly under his breath.

"Oh boy, here he goes!" said Brett excitedly. Flynn Earnshaw smiled triumphantly.

"I want Señor Santos's long form birth certificate and I want Josh Lyman's complete medical records!"

"So in addition to racist conspiracy baiting, we're calling for the release of private information now?" Ainsley began, calmly. "Charming."

"Folks, we're running out of time, but before we wrap up this segment, let's get one last word from our guests. Ladies first; Ainsley?"

"I wish we had spent some of our time talking about the president's problematic oversimplification of his administration's environmental policy when talking to voters in Wisconsin today," Ainsley began. "But since we felt it was so necessary to spend the whole time on Josh Lyman, I'll just say that I hope, come January, my old friend, fully recovered from his operation, is enjoying a very restful early retirement and spending his new found free time with his wife; she's a lovely person and they're very happy together."

"Aww, she's so sweet," said Brett Thorson condescendingly. "Flynn Earnshaw looks like he's ready to burst, so we'll let him have the last word."

"Señor Santos and Lying Lyman," he began. "You might think this is a game, but the American people won't put up with this. We are going to toss your asses out of power and onto buses back to wherever you came from, one back to New York and one back to Mexico."

"Thank you to Flynn Earnshaw and Ainsley Hayes," said Brett. "Ladies and gentlemen, we'll see you after this break."

When the cameras cut, Ainsley glared at the two men sharing the set with her. Both were giggling triumphantly like insufferable frat boys.

"Josh Lyman was actually born and raised in the great state of Connecticut," said Ainsley coolly, without making eye contact. "But I expect you knew that just as well as I know what you meant by New York. That's a new trick for you, Earnshaw, but it fits right in with the rest of your act, so I guess it works."

Earnshaw grinned. Ainsley turned to the host. "Thanks, Brett. I think I won't be doing this show again. Your production assistant, Tina, should get a raise, by the way." She abruptly stood up and efficiently made her way out of the studio.

* * *

A few hours later, Donna had gone back to the hotel room to get a little sleep, and Josh was wide awake. In spite of his better judgement, he flipped on the TV in his hospital room, starting with CNN.

"...leaving us to wonder, just what is going on with Josh Lyman?" mused a commentator.

Josh changed the channel to another cable news station.

"...the man who President Santos once said, quote, 'runs my White House so well that my function is mostly decorative', might be seriously ill."

He changed it again.

"Just how sick is Josh Lyman?"

Click.

"Our top story this hour, still no official statement from the White House after Chief of Staff Joshua Lyman was rushed-"

Click.

"Lyman announced earlier this year that he would undergo surgery at Johns Hopkins-"

Click.

"How sick is Josh Lyman?"

Click.

"...what even happens? Not to be callous, but it's worth asking. Who's running the show if Lyman dies? Sam Seaborn? God help us!"

Click.


	8. Chapter 8

**Next chapter is up! Thanks again for the reviews!**

 **Quick note, I went back an added a bit to the previous chapter; I had begun to write this one and realized the scene belonged in the previous chapter. It's not necessarily vital to the plot, but it both introduces a WW character into the mix (who will show up later) and fleshes out a minor original character a bit, so if you read the previous chapter early on, you might want to go back and read the addition (it's near the end).**

 **Just a head's up, there is one use of pretty strong language in this chapter; I know I originally said I wanted to keep the dialogue consistent with the show's tone, but I wrote the line and found that no substitutions would work; the character would have used that exact phrase and nothing short of it. I hope no one minds too much.**

 **Anyway, here's the next chapter! I look forward to hearing what you think!**

Josh hadn't slept in two days; when light finally crept in through the large window of his hospital room, he had felt relieved that he could give up the pretense of trying to fall asleep. As he halfheartedly picked at his breakfast-comprised of flavorless cafeteria scrambled eggs, a single slice of unbuttered toast, a cup of orange juice and decaffeinated unsweetened tea-he wondered if it was too early to call Donna. He didn't want her to feel she had to rush back up there the second she woke up, but the night without her had been lonely and miserable.

He glanced at the time on his cell phone; it was 7:04. Donna was probably awake by now, but something held him back from dialing her up. Today was the day President Santos was to speak to students and faculty at the University. Donna was supposed to introduce him again and she had been so excited about that.

What she didn't know was that, by Josh's design and with the eager support of the president and first lady, the university chancellor was going to confer an honorary degree on Donna at the event. He had been working on arranging that since the Wisconsin trip was first planned and when he first approached the school's administrators, they were all too happy to officially count Donna Moss-Lyman as among their alumni. Josh wanted it to be a happy surprise for her, a way to show her how proud he was of her and how proud she should be of herself.

Now he worried that she would miss the whole thing to be at the bedside of a sickly and too-old-for-her husband, much the way she missed out on finishing her actual degree to take care of a freeloading boyfriend. The idea made Josh want to throw up.

He had almost made up his mind to call her when a nurse appeared in the door.

"Hi, I'm Andrew," he said cheerfully, walking in. "I'm on the day shift. Shawna just finished giving me report and now I'm here to take a look at your IV, check your vitals, and then help myself to a little blood."

Josh smiled politely. He set the phone back down as Andrew started to examine his left arm where the IV was attached.

"Everything looks good here," he said, then moved to the other side of the bed to attach a blood pressure cuff to Josh's other arm. Josh tried not to make a face as it got painfully tight for a few seconds. "Your BP is still a little high, but much improved. Doc will be pleased with that; we might even get our floor back today if you're very good."

"Get your floor back?"

"I have to say that having to go through a Secret Service security check to start my work day was a first for me," said Andrew. "I was off yesterday, but I've been told it's making life difficult for some of the other patients and their families."

"Oh, God," Josh started, feeling enormously guilty about that. "I didn't realize-I'll see what I can do about that; I'm so sorry."

"Well, just as long as your boss doesn't decide to come visit you," Andrew began. "I heard them talking about what they'd have to do; the day shift supervisor said we'd need to clear this whole hallway of any other visitors and keep the other patients in their rooms as long as he was here."

"He's not gonna come," said Josh resolutely. "I spoke to him last night and my deputy told him the same thing. He's got a very full schedule and besides, it's not like I'm an expert or anything, but stopping people from visiting their sick relatives in the hospital because you feel like going somewhere doesn't play well in an election year."

Andrew laughed. "It's too bad," he said. "I kinda hoped he would. I mean, don't get me wrong, for all those reasons and more, it's best he doesn't, but I'm not gonna lie; it would have been pretty cool to meet him."

"You'd like him," said Josh. "It's not just an act with him; he's cool in real life. That was really my first impression of him, back when he was just a Congressman, that he was the real deal, no pretense."

"Was Bartlet cool in real life?"

"For the biggest nerd I've ever met? Yeah, he's pretty damn cool," said Josh affectionately. Andrew laughed a little and proceeded to draw some of Josh's blood.

* * *

"Damn it Abbey, why the hell can't I?" Jed snarled at his wife in their very high end Chicago hotel room.

"You know why," she argued back. "We're here for a reason, and you can't just shoot on up to Madison for an unscheduled side trip!"

"A side-trip?! This is Josh we're talking about!"

"What do you think you can do?" she shot back. Abbey resented the implication that she didn't care enough about Josh. Of course the news had been unsettling. In fact, when she first heard the early descriptions of what happened in the press, she had feared the worst. Unlike just about all of the other people close to Josh, Abbey understood full well the severity of what was happening to his body; she knew intimately how even the smallest failures and weaknesses of structures as small and local as a few centimeters of a blood vessel could kill.

"I can't stand to hear them talk about him like that," said Jed, a bit quieter, but every bit as intensely. "Some of that is my fault, Abbey. He's tainted because of me, because of the MS, so they have that narrative to run with, and they're just kicking him when he's down. Do you know they're even bringing back up the rumors about after the shooting?"

"You mean when Leo brought in the ATVA guy?" said Abbey soberly. Jed just nodded.

"I just need to see him," he replied.

Abbey's heart swelled with sympathy as she remembered another time Jed had desperately needed to see Josh. That night at GW, as her husband recovered from his successful procedure, she had agonized over whether to tell him immediately or wait until he'd had time to rest.

" _Abbey," he said faintly. "Leo said all our people were ok, right?"_

 _When she looked into his eyes, she found it would be physically impossible to lie to him. She grabbed his hand and took a deep breath, knowing her watery eyes had already betrayed her._

" _Sweetheart," she said very gently. "You need to-"_

" _Who?" He had a way of cutting right to it when he wanted to._

" _Everyone is alive," she shot quickly, hoping that would take the edge off. As far as she knew, that was still true, but it had been a while since she last checked in. She reassured herself that someone would have let her know if Josh was gone; for now, she hadn't lied._

" _Who?!" Jed demanded, terrified. He knew Zoey and Leo were safe, thank God. But now he had to know about all the others._

" _Josh was hit in the chest," said Abbey as calmly as she could. Jed, partly feeling the lingering effects of the anesthesia, started to cry and shake his head. "They're doing everything they can for him, but it's a very serious injury."_

" _No, no," he said. "He can't have been hit. He can't have been!"_

" _He's in surgery," explained Abbey._

" _In his chest?" Jed asked latching onto that horrible detail. "Oh my God, no."_

 _Abbey touched his face with her free hand and swallowed the lump in her throat. "Leo managed to get a hold of his mother; she's on the way but she can't get a flight so it could take a long time."_

" _Abbey, tell me if he'll live?" he asked, suddenly and desperately. "You have to have some idea. Please. Will he live?"_

 _She couldn't lie to him._

" _I don't know," she answered honestly. "They're very good here; this is the best place for him, but it looks pretty bad. I think we're going to lose him, Jed."_

* * *

Josh was so relieved that Donna had brought him a change of clothes; it was bad enough to be sitting in this doctor's office in a wheelchair with both an IV pole and an oxygen tank. It would have added an extra layer of humiliation to still be wearing a hospital gown. Donna sat beside him in a chair as they waited for the doctor. They were going to video chat with the lead surgeon at Johns Hopkins about how this last episode might impact the plan for his procedure.

"So it didn't go well with the respiratory therapist?" Donna mentioned. She had gotten to the hospital much later than she meant to, with the chaos of the campaign presence in the hotel.

Josh shook his head. "I failed the breathing test," he said, trying to sound light. In truth, it had troubled him greatly that he had to stay on oxygen for now. "I think Harvard might revoke my degree until I pass a remedial course."

"Do you feel ok?" she asked with genuine concern, not engaging with his jokes. "You still look pretty worn out."

"As long as I've got this thing in place, I don't really have a problem," Josh explained, gesturing to the tubing. He hadn't told her that he'd been so completely unable to sleep at all. "Hopefully I can ditch it soon though." Donna smiled warmly and nodded in gentle agreement.

The door opened and Josh's attending physician came into the room.

"Sorry to keep you waiting," she said and sat down at her desk. She looked at Josh. "You were pretty out of it last night, so I'm not sure if you remember, but I'm Dr. Steadman. As I explained to your wife yesterday, I wanted to set this up so we could go over what happened yesterday and the record of the newest angio with your surgeon in case they'll want to adjust course."

"How might they adjust course?" Donna asked, trying to hide her nervousness.

"I'm not sure," said Dr. Steadman. "I'm not a surgeon, but I've been a vascular specialist for twenty years and I've never seen anything quite like Mr. Lyman's pulmonary artery. That was a horrific injury. The trauma surgeons they had at George Washington ten years ago had to have been miracle workers."

"And they were the b-team," said Josh in an odd, pseudo-bragging tone.

"The b-team?" asked Dr. Steadman incredulously.

"He means that the 'a-team' were operating on the president," said Donna. "The best trauma surgeon and his staff were working on President Bartlet before Josh was even brought in."

"That part always amazes me," marvelled Dr. Steadman. "You'd think the whole place would have been on bypass with the president there."

"He would have died if they made the ambulance take him to the next closest hospital," said Donna, somewhat harshly. "The next closest trauma center was thirty minutes away in evening traffic; he never would have made it."

"Anyway, I'm alive and more-or-less well today," said Josh impatiently. It made him uncomfortable and somewhat self-conscious to hear Donna and the Doctor talk about what had happened to him as if he wasn't in the room. "Can we get on with this?"

"Right," said the doctor, turning the large and vibrant screen of her desktop Mac so Donna and Josh could see it. "Let me just pull this up," she said as she opened a video chat call program. "They should pick up, here…."

A surprisingly high quality video image of Dr. Paul Eisen of Johns Hopkins' Department of Thoracic Surgery appeared on the screen. He was a middle-aged man of slight build with a thick head of slick gray hair and a clean shaven face. "Can you hear us?" asked Dr. Steadman adjusting the computer volume.

"Loud and clear," replied Dr. Eisen. He nodded in acknowledgement at Josh and Donna.

"Ok, Dr. Eisen," began Dr. Steadman. "I've got Josh Lyman and Donna Moss-Lyman here and I've sent you the updated chart with the patient's vitals from this morning. As you'll see he's still on oxygen after being assessed by respiratory therapy today."

On the video, Dr. Eisen appeared to be reviewing some notes. "Leave him on oxygen," he said, almost instantly. Josh was immediately annoyed that this seemed to be another conversation where he would be a subject-spectator rather than a participant. "He's probably just gonna need to stay on it until we operate. Based on the way this angioplasty went yesterday-"

"Wait," said Josh. Both doctors glanced at him. "What do you mean, stay on it?"

"The way they had to stop the bleeding, Josh," began Dr. Eisen. "You won't get good blood flow to the left lung until we complete the repair and the graft. You'll need oxygen."

"I'm not gonna walk around for three weeks carting around a tank!" Josh snarled.

"Josh-" Donna started.

"No, not for three weeks you won't," said Dr. Eisen abruptly.

"What?"

"I'm moving this up," he began. "Another episode like that will kill you. We waited as long as we could for your numbers to improve, but three more weeks isn't going to help. I want to do this a week from Tuesday. Dr. McKeague is still out of town until next Monday, otherwise I'd say I want you admitted as soon as your back on the east coast."

"A week from Tuesday?" Donna repeated nervously.

"Yes," said Eisen. "You'll check into the hospital the morning the day before; we'll do all your pre-op testing and then do it first thing the next morning. And you are absolutely done working."

"No," said Josh. "That's not gonna happen. I can't leave the White House yet. We've got an emissions standards bill that's going to be a tough floor fight. The president was counting on having me until the 29th of May and I'm not changing that."

"Josh-" Donna tried again, unsuccessfully.

"Think of the media," Josh continued. "They're already practically drafting my damn obituary! If I leave the White House three weeks early, it's going to be this huge thing! It'll be a distraction! It'll make me the story and hurt the campaign and it'll-"

"Josh," began Dr. Eisen, cutting him off harshly. "If we try to make this wait until the first of June, they're going to actually have to write your obituary."

"Oh my God," Donna blurted out, almost starting to cry. Josh, shocked into uncomfortable silence, put his arm around her, trying carefully not to get his IV line tangled in her hair. He took a deep breath. He wanted desperately to continue this argument, but he couldn't do that to her. He hated it, but he accepted it.

"Ok," he whispered than gave a nod, more of reisgnation than agreement. The two doctors resumed speaking directly to each other in the manner that had so annoyed Josh before, but now he didn't care or even listen much. Donna leaned into him and he stroked her shoulder. "It's ok," he whispered very softly to her.

Donna felt distraught. She wasn't ready to go through this yet; she thought she would have more time, more time to prepare to face it, more time to be with him. Now he was somehow in even more danger and the surgeon was so callous in his bluntness; maybe Josh needed to hear it put so harshly, but she couldn't stand it. With her ear close to his chest, she listened to his heart and the labored wheezing sound of his breaths.

* * *

Life probably didn't get better than this.

Toby Ziegler was never someone who could be described as sentimental or overly chipper, but right now, he was so content. Molly and Huck were settled in the backseat and starting to doze off, as he slowly and carefully negotiated his way out of the crowded parking lot near Yankee Stadium. Both kids were decked out in Yankee souvenir hats and t-shirts. He'd done it, Toby thought triumphantly; one really fun time at a game in the Bronx and now his son and daughter were properly converted New York fans. It had been a wonderful afternoon.

They were here with him. He had his kids here with him for a while, and life was good.

As Toby merged onto the freeway, he flipped the radio on quietly. He wondered if there was any more news about Josh. He knew it was absurd to try to get updates on a friend's health situation from the news, but there was something stopping him from just calling him and talking to him. He wasn't really sure what. He hit the button a few times between his various presets until he got to NPR.

"...will not be released from a hospital in Madison, Wisconsin until tomorrow morning according to a campaign spokesperson. The president's trip in the midwest will continue as scheduled, including a dinner in Chicago and events in Indiana before returning to Washington. In related news, presumptive Republican nominee Ray Sullivan had harsh words for Lyman at a campaign rally in Tallahasseee this afternoon. For more on that, we'll go to member station WSFQ."

Toby sighed and listened acutely.

"Matt Santos wants the government involved in your healthcare," began the voice of Ray Sullivan on the radio, to a chorus of boos. "Matt Santos and Josh Lyman are always working on ways for Big Government to get into your healthcare, like the travesty of a bill they passed last year! But when it comes to their own health, suddenly, it's Josh Lyman's own private business that he can't sit through a speech at a church without passing out! Just like it was his old boss Leo McGarry's own private business that he was drunk and high as Labor Secretary, and it was Bartlet's own private business that he had a degenerative disease in the Oval Office! I say no more!"

Toby wondered if there was a slight dimension of antisemitism at work in the way many right wing commentators made sure to always mention that this had happened to Josh in a church. That seemed like a subtle enough dog whistle to get away with if anyone tried to call them on it, but the more bigoted supporters might still get the idea.

"That's West Virginia governor and presidential candidate Ray Sullivan speaking to supports at a rally today," began the reporter. "Conservatives have been quick to call for greater transparency about White House Chief of Staff Joshua Lyman's recent health problems, often drawing parallels to former President Bartlet's shocking admission in May 2001 that he had not disclosed his MS diagnosis to voters during his first campaign. Sullivan was addressing a crowd of…"

Toby's attention drifted in and out. The story had been the same. They were really beating up on him. So much so that the president himself was like an afterthought. He decided maybe he'd better give him a call; Josh wasn't going to like what he planned on suggesting, but he felt he needed to do it.

* * *

Donna had reluctantly left Josh to go to the event at the college; in truth the auditorium was just a few blocks from the medical school and hospital part of the campus, so at least it was close enough that she could immediately go back to him. What she had been so eagerly looking forward to, she now just wanted to get past. She would have just skipped it if Josh hadn't insisted.

Pacing back and forth behind the auditorium stage, she kept her distance from the other staffers; the president and the first lady were still in a makeshift green room. Sam walked over to her.

"I just got off the phone with him," he said nervously. Donna smiled dully; she hadn't told anyone yet what the doctors said about moving up his procedure. "He told me."

Donna nodded soberly.

"Look, if there's anything I," he started, but found himself unsure how to finish that sentence. He swallowed. "I'm ready to step up for him, Donna. I don't want him to worry about any of that; I won't let him down."

Donna wasn't sure what to say. She paused for a minute, then through her arms around Sam. "Thank you," she whispered.

"You have to get ready to go out there," said Sam. Donna nodded and stepped closer to the side of the stage.

"Before we hear from President Santos," began the university chancellor. "I want to tell you about a former student here at UW. She, like a lot of you, dabbled in different majors, but she did very well in everything she tried her hand at, from psychology to art history."

Donna felt butterflies in her stomach and her face getting red, as if she knew instantly where this was headed. It was a strange, self-conscious feeling.

"We all know that circumstances arise sometimes that knock us off the path we thought we were on and such was the case of this student. She didn't end up finishing her undergraduate studies here, but not long after withdrawing, she found another calling, the sort of calling that we might only hear once in a lifetime if we're lucky, and the kind that listening to it sometimes makes us do crazy things that no one will understand. For this former student, it was public service and civic engagement calling. Against the advice of her friends and family, she drove across the country to New Hampshire, to a little storefront campaign office for an underdog candidate called Josiah Bartlet.

"There she met an up and coming political operative named Josh Lyman and, as he proudly tells it, convinced him on the spot that they needed her. That was 1998. In the twelve years since, Donnatella Moss-Lyman worked tirelessly in the Bartlet administration, assisting on major policy initiatives, she was a highly visible senior staffer on the campaign trail for President Santos in 2006, and she now serves as Chief of Staff to First Lady, Helen Santos. She's helped friends through times of chaos and suffering, including the Rosslyn, Virginia shootings of 2000 and the first daughter's kidnapping in 2003. When the opportunity came to serve her country in the cause of peace by traveling to Gaza with a Congressional delegation, she courageously and boldly stepped up, and when she was seriously injured in a terrorist attack there, she was undeterred and returned to work at the White House as soon as she could.

"Donna is here with us today," he continued. "That up and coming political operative she met in New Hampshire is now her husband, by the way, for those of you who don't follow all the palace intrigue of the Santos White House. When he reached out to my office a few weeks ago, and told me all this about Donna, he was just beaming with pride, as he should be. And here in Wisconsin, we're beaming with pride too."

Donna felt tears racing down her face. She looked around; everyone backstage was smiling brightly at her, including the president and first lady.

"Today it is my great pleasure to present Donna Moss-Lyman with an honorary degree from the College of Letters and Sciences. She's a Badger officially now. Donna, would you please join us?" He stepped back from the podium and began to lead the audience of students in a warm round of applause. Donna stepped out onto the stage feeling such an overwhelming combination of emotions. She wished desperately that Josh was there; it was clear now that he had arranged this. A part of her felt guilty for enjoying it, in light of what was happening.

She glanced out into the crowd at all the young and idealistic faces, clapping and cheering for her accomplishments, and in that moment, she couldn't help but feel proud.

* * *

Josh felt restless sitting up in the chair in his room. He hoped that the event at the college had gone well, both for Donna and the president. It troubled him deeply the way that his situation had completely dominated the news of what was supposed to be an important campaign trip. He tried to reach Joey Lucas to start getting an idea of how bad the damage was, but her assistant wasn't taking his calls and she wasn't replying to the six emails he'd sent that afternoon. Josh suspected that Sam had something to do with that.

In what Josh considered an egregious crossing of boundaries, Andrew had instructed a CNA to disconnect the TV in his room when he caught him fixating on watching the news coverage as his blood pressure started to creep upwards again. That, combined with Dr. Stedman's decision to keep him in one more night left him feeling like jumping out of his skin.

Suddenly Josh felt like control over his own life was being stripped away from him. He was being forced to leave his job sooner than he wanted to, and he was now effectively on the outside looking in as his president fought a tough re-elction battle. He couldn't even call the shots in his personal life the way he wanted to; he and Donna started trying to have a baby over fifteen months ago, and all that had netted them was conflict and terrible heartache.

Surviving the shooting had been a miracle. Josh wasn't very spiritual and didn't like to use that word lightly, but there just wasn't a better one to describe that. If just one of a million little variables hadn't broken his way that night, he would have been dead at thirty-eight. He would have missed so much.

Now he wondered if his miracle was only good enough to drag out what was always going to happen anyway. Was that bullet, fired by a hate-filled teenager, going to catch up to him ten years later and take the future away from him? And now, aparently, all of his dignity with it?

He had dodged a few phone calls from his mother throughout the day; he knew it wasn't a good idea to talk to her when he was feeling this way. It would only upset her and he never wanted to do that. Josh had learned from a very young age how to protect her from his feelings. He'd been perfecting that skill since he was eight years old.

His cell phone started to vibrate on the bedside table. He didn't feel like standing up, so he stretched awkwardly to reach it, hoping perhaps that it was Donna or Sam. To his surprise, it was Toby, whom he hadn't spoken to in a few weeks.

"Toby?" he said as he answered, very cautious to not sound breathless. He wasn't sure why that mattered to him, but it did.

"Josh," said Toby. An awkward momentary silence transpired. Toby knew he should immediately ask Josh how he was and express his concern, but he hesitated.

"What's up?" Josh asked after a while.

"I needed to talk to you about something," said Toby tensely.

"Ok," said Josh, now making a specific effort to distance the phone from his nose and mouth as he took breaths so that Toby wouldn't notice the wheezing sound.

"Are you feeling ok?" Toby asked, uncomfortably, remembering the way he regretted appearing so cold and unfeeling with President Bartlet first told him about his illness.

"Yeah, I'm alright," Josh replied. "Thanks," he added after a pause. Conversations like this with Toby occasionally had this kind of tone. A lot of time had passed since the tension between them had come to blows after Toby's brother died; they had largely repaired their relationship over the years and it was always clear, in their strange ways, that they cared about each other. But occasionally things could be heated. Josh wasn't sure why this conversation felt like it was moving in that direction, and in his low mood, felt defensive and annoyed about it. What the hell did Toby have to be mad at him about this time?

"Listen," Toby began, somewhat carefully. "I know a lot of what they're saying is crap. But they're saying it, Josh. It's going to make things difficult over the next couple weeks, and I-"

"It's not gonna be a couple weeks," Josh cut him off.

"I'm sorry?"

"It's not gonna be a couple weeks," Josh explained. "They talked to my surgeon. He doesn't want to wait any longer. I'm having the operation a week from Tuesday."

"A week from Tuesday?"

"Yeah," said Josh. "And I have to be on oxygen 24/7 and can't work anymore. So in response to what they're saying, I've heard all the lines. 'How sick is Josh Lyman?' is like a catch phrase, and the answer I guess is, 'pretty damn sick'. It's bad, ok? Is that what you called about?"

Toby was silent. That was a lot to take in.

"I'm gonna give a statement," Josh explained. "Lou is going to work with me on it, then Sam and I will give a joint press conference. I'm going to start my leave right away and Sam is ready to be acting COS until the convention as planned."

"You have to resign," Toby blurted out. He couldn't dance around it for another second.

Now it was Josh's turn to be silent.

"You have to resign, Josh," he said again, trying unsuccessfully to sound a bit gentler this time. "You're damaging the president and it only gets worse the longer you drag it out. You need to bow out quietly now."

"I'm damaging the president?" said Josh. "Toby Ziegler, _that_ Toby Ziegler, is telling me to resign, because I'm damaging the president?!"

"I know that I-" Toby started. He felt the hypocracy and knew Josh wasn't wrong to call him on it.

"Fuck you."

There was silence for a while. Toby wondered if Josh had hung up on him, until he realized that he heard labored, agitated breathing on the other end of the phone.

"His speech on the green tech sector yesterday was good," said Toby. "It was great even, and his answers to the questions were great, and nobody paid any attention to it."

"Because of me," said Josh. "I promise I'm acutely aware of that."

"Flynn Earnshaw is practically daring nutjob hackers to go after your medical records," said Toby.

"That's illegal," said Josh. "In case you didn't know."

"You think that makes it impossible?" said Toby. "Damn it, Josh, what the hell do you think a leak of your medical records would turn up? You think your re-election campaign's in trouble now? Wait til they get a hold of the Chief of Staff seeing a psychaitrist! What about having a trauma specialist making house calls at the White House?!"

At that, Josh froze. Stanley Keyworth only came to the White House for him the one time. He'd spoken to him on the phone a handful of times over the years, but all of his subsequent visits to DC were for someone else.

Toby didn't know that. Only he, Leo and President Bartlet himself knew about that. But Toby did know Stanley came a few times, over a couple years. And if Toby knew it, other people knew it too. Stanley Keyworth would have kept no records of treating the president; Josh and Leo had persuaded him not to, even though that was an ethical violation that might have jeopardized his license. If any of that got out now, it wouldn't just be a scandal; there would probably be investigations and depositions about it. If asked under oath, Stanley might be able to rely on doctor-patient privilege, but Josh would have to either reveal that the former president had received mental health treatment in the White House, or commit perjury while silmulteneously damaging his own reputation further.

All this raced through his mind as he sat in silence.

"I'm not gonna resign," he said harshly after a along pause.

"You should do it now while you still have a choice," said Toby.

"Yeah, go to hell, Toby," Josh shot back. "Thanks for your concern; you're a real pal." With that, he hung up. His current cell phone was the first smart-phone he'd ever used, and while he mostly loved the connectivitiy, sometimes he missed the satisfying feeling of slamming a flip phone shut in disgust.

During his spat with Toby, he hadn't noticed the activity in the hall. There were several agents walking back and forth, and Josh could hear the static of their radios.

He was mortified; aparently the president had decided to come after all. He had begged him not to; this was just more proof of his waning influence.

"Have eyes on Pitbull in Room 806, floor is secure," Josh could hear a nearby agent say.

"Copy that," he heard back through the radio. "Eagle is coming off the elevator."

Eagle? Josh was confused. President Santos' Secret Service code name was "Patriot". Maybe he just hadn't heard right.

Determined not to look too pathetic when the president arrived, Josh carefully pulled his IV pole to the side and adjusted the cannula in his nostrils so that very little excess tubing was visible. He smoothed out his unkept hair with his fingers and adjusted his Mets t-shirt.

When a pair of agents swept quickly through the room, Josh stood up, as straightly as he could manage, but didn't look at the door.

"Hello, Josh," said a warm and familiar voice. Josh's eyes shot up and we was stunned by what he saw.

There in the doorway, leaning on a cane, was Jed Bartlet.


	9. Chapter 9

**Hello! Here is the next chapter. Thank you again for the wonderful reviews; I had a request to have my original character interact with Jed, so I hope you like their conversation!**

"Mr. President," said Josh, somewhat shocked.

"Why don't we sit?" said Jed. Josh nodded uncomfortably and glanced around the room; there was only one chair, meaning he would have to sit on the bed and thoroughly play the part of the sick person. He scooted his IV pole out of the way and offered the former president the chair, then sat down on the side of the bed, shoving his flat pillow out of the way.

Jed sat down and looked his former deputy chief of staff over; it was strange and disconcerting to see Josh looking like this. Josh's tired face was showing his age more than it ever had; it was sobering for Jed to remember that the dynamic young man he thought of as a son was almost fifty now.

Worse still was the sight of the IV in his arm and oxygen tube in his nose; it was reminiscent of those first terrifying days after the shooting, when Jed, still recovering himself and accompanied by his protection detail and two nurses, would walk gingerly down to the intensive care unit where Josh stubbornly clung to life. Jed was discharged and back at the White House before the doctors were sure that Josh had made it through the worst of the danger and would most likely recover.

"Please tell me you were at least already in Chicago and didn't fly out from New Hampshire to see me," said Josh quietly.

"I'm retired and very wealthy, Josh," said Jed. "I can fly around the country at a moment's notice if I feel like it." He immediately felt bad when he saw the look on Josh's face; apparently he'd taken him completely seriously. "Yeah, I was in Chicago. I flew private up here, it was less than an hour from O'Hare."

"I'm ok, you didn't need to come," Josh replied quickly.

"Yeah, but I wanted to," Jed replied. "Abbey thought I shouldn't, that the attention it'd create might do more harm than good, but I didn't listen to her. I had to come see you for myself."

"I don't know what to say," said Josh quietly.

"Well, 'good to see you, Jed, thanks for coming to see me' wouldn't be a bad place to start," replied the former president drolly.

"We've been through this and you know I'm never going to call you 'Jed' sir," Josh shot back, with a bit of a smile this time.

"How are you doing?"

"Not too bad," said Josh. "I was hoping to get out of here today, but they said tomorrow morning. Donna and I are going to get a commercial flight back to DC in the afternoon."

"You're going to go straight from the hospital to the airport?" Jed asked, shocked.

"I need to get back to the White House," said Josh. "I have some loose ends to wrap up." He paused and took a deep breath; this wouldn't be easy, but he knew he would have to tell him eventually. "I'm going to give a statement on Monday morning, announcing that I'm starting my leave of absence effective immediately and having the procedure a week from Tuesday."

Jed did his best not to overreact.

"They don't want you to wait until June?" he asked quietly.

"No," Josh started. "They said it's too dangerous to risk having another episode like this."

"Why the wait until next Tuesday then?" Jed asked nervously. "Why don't they do it now? They could get you to the University of Chicago or Northwestern easily enough if they couldn't do it here."

Josh sighed and tried to be patient. "It's bad enough they moved it up as much as they did. I'm glad I'll have some time."

Jed was about to argue further, but he remembered what Abbey had told him about Josh being bombarded with unsolicited advice and decided to hold his tongue; it wouldn't help Josh to see him get worked up about it.

"Will your mother come up?" he asked, hoping that was more neutral.

Josh frowned. He hadn't actually spoken to her that day yet, but Donna filled her in. "Yeah, she's already changed her flight reservations."

"I like your mom a lot," said Jed quietly. Josh looked confused; he wasn't entirely sure how the former president could possibly be that familiar with his mother. They had met a couple of times, most recently at Josh and Donna's wedding three years ago, but he doubted they'd ever talked much.

"She voted for you twice," he replied awkwardly. Jed smiled slightly in acknowledgement, but then he realized what Josh was thinking. It made sense; he wouldn't have remembered or even been aware of how Jed Bartlet and Rachel Lyman came to know each other very well.

"She and I spent a lot of hours together," he said softly. "At the bedside of someone we loved when it still looked like he might not make it back to us." He took a deep breath and reached across to put a hand on Josh's shoulder. The younger man couldn't quite bring himself to look up at him.

"Ten years later and it seems I'm still not out of the woods from it," said Josh. He realized that sounded like self-pity, but he didn't care; right now, he felt a great deal of self-pity.

"So much happened to us, Josh," began the former president, squeezing his shoulder tenderly. "But Rosslyn was a horror that you bore the worst of."

"I don't know for sure that this was all it was," Josh started quietly. "But a little while before I passed out, I saw these Bible-thumper college kids on the rope line. They had signs about Carl LeRoy, and I, I don't know, I kinda wigged out. Sam snapped me out of it, but I think that started my blood pressure cranking up. I felt all queasy and flushed and like my heart was pounding, even before I started coughing. That hadn't happened to me in years."

Jed took a deep breath. Carl LeRoy was the elephant in every room.

"I wrote to him, Josh," he said, almost as if he were confessing a terrible betrayal. "I wrote to LeRoy."

"What?"

"His lawyer reached out to me a few months ago," Jed began to explain. "He had a letter for me and I decided to read it."

Josh stared open mouthed into space, trying to take it in.

"I think he's sincere in his regret," he said, very tentatively. "He said the push for getting the pardon only started since he got sick. If he gets out and dies a few weeks or months later, then he functionally served his life-sentence."

"What did you say to him?" Josh asked, somewhat harshly.

Jed took a deep breath. "I told him that, for my part, for whatever it's worth, I forgive him."

"You forgive him?" Josh asked. "Just like that?"

"No," said Jed. "There was no 'just like that' about it." He almost began to regret telling this to Josh. "I forgive him for what he did to me. I was shot too, remember?"

"Jesus, of course I remember!" snapped Josh. Ten years ago, when Leo had tried to gently inform him that the president had been shot, Josh got so upset they had to sedate him. Jed knew that; he knew that Josh blamed himself when anyone he cared about got hurt. He knew he shouldn't have phrased it like that.

"I told him I couldn't forgive him for what he did to you," he said quickly. "Or Charlie. That forgiveness for trying to kill Charlie, injuring you, Ron Butterfield and Stephanie Abbott wasn't in my gift and even if it was, he'd never have it."

"He'd never have it?" Josh asked, stunned by the change of direction.

"No," said Jed firmly. "I guess that's some kind of ethical gymnastics that gets me to that point, and my priest would say it wasn't good enough, but I think that's the best I can do. Josh, when I saw you on that table with your body cut open and a machine breathing for you, I thought I wanted to kill whoever was responsible. Compared to that, it's easy to forgive him for the fact that I had a minor injury and a simple surgery that night."

"People talk about his life sentence," Josh began with a shaky voice. "What about me? What about my life sentence?! I didn't do anything, and damn it, I have to live my whole life in the shadow of that Nazi hick and his degenerate friends! I needed months of therapy to not fall apart when I heard music! I still have nightmares, I still take pills and I have to covertly see a shrink, because God knows, it'd be the end of the world if anyone found out about it! And that's just the parts that are in my head! That's before we get to the fact that I still have pain in my chest and my back because of it! Before we get to the fact that every time I so much as get a stupid cold, I end up on antibiotics with pneumonia because my left lung is too damaged to clear itself out right when I cough! And as it turns out, even brilliant trauma surgeons could only do so much with a shredded blood vessel, because ten years out and it has to be fixed again! Fixed with a dangerous operation that's pulling me away from the White House and the campaign! I'm forty-eight; I'm not young but I'm not so old that I should have to be as actively worried about dying as I've had to be for the last five months! I don't care that he's sorry. I really don't. And I'm sorry, but I don't even really care that he's got cancer. I'm still living with what he did to me and I am so goddamn angry about that!" By now, Josh had raised his voice significantly and there were tears in his eyes. The combination of exhaustion, frustration with the media, and his infuriating conversation with Toby was all crashing down on him. He took a labored breath and choked a sob.

Jed's first instinct was to look away in awkward silence, but something told him he needed to fight that. Josh hid his face in his hand, embarrassed beyond belief to be crying in the presence of his old boss, yet unable to compose himself. Jed, however, slid his chair closer to the edge of the bed where Josh sat, having difficulty moving because of the weakness and stiffness in his legs, and protectively wrapped his arm around him.

* * *

Donna could hardly believe it when her mother was waiting for her in the lobby of the hospital after the event at the college.

"Mom?" she asked, entering through a busy revolving door. Donna hardly noticed that there were half a dozen uniformed security officers pacing the lobby. She didn't at all notice the subtle movements of three Secret Service agents near the doors and the elevators.

"They showed that on the local news," said Lisa, almost with tears in her eyes as she walked up to Donna. "He set that up, didn't he?"

"Yeah, he did, Mom," said Donna.

"I'm so sorry," said Lisa, hugging her. "I should have been there. I saw that, and I just thought, wow, I've been such an idiot. He loves you. I know he loves you. And I promise, I'm gonna do my best to always remember that. No matter my hang-ups about Gaza or that he was your boss or that he's older than you, I promise, I'm just gonna remind myself that he loves you. He loves you the way I always prayed that a man would love you."

Donna hugged her back. "Thank you," she whispered.

"I should have come yesterday," Lisa started. "I should have called you and made sure you were ok. I thought I'd be in the way, but maybe I was just making excuses; I should have at least called you to see if you needed me. I hope you can forgive me. Your father wasn't home yet, but I thought I would catch you here and I didn't want to wait."

"I'm glad you came now," said Donna. She took a deep breath. "He's having his procedure a week from Tuesday now."

"Oh God," said Lisa.

"It's scary," said Donna quietly. "It's happening too fast. I was supposed to have more time to be ready to face this."

Lisa smiled warmly and touched her face. "Donna," she said gently. "You were never going to be ready to face it."

"What?"

"When you have something like this looming over you," she continued. "You always think you'd be ok if you had just a little more time, but that's never the case. You've known he needed this surgery since the winter and it's been hanging over your heads since then, but you weren't suddenly going to be any more ready in June than you are now."

"But what if-" Donna started but found her voice failed her mid-sentence. "I just need more time with him! What if he-?"

Lisa squeezed her hand. "He won't," she said firmly.

Donna nodded.

"Let's think about it this way," said Lisa softly. "He's going to get it over with sooner. He might even be home from the hospital before he even would have had the surgery, right? And then he's gonna be two whole weeks more recovered when you two go to Europe. Think about that, ok?"

"Thanks Mom," said Donna softly.

"Let's go up and see him," said Lisa. "You'll feel better when you do, I promise."

"Yeah, let's do that," Donna agreed. "They have a Secret Service checkpoint on the floor; do you have your ID with you?" she asked her mother. Lisa nodded. After checking in at the reception desk, they started walking down a long corridor towards the correct elevator.

"Did I ever tell you the story about how I knew?" Donna asked quietly as they walked.

"Knew what, dear?" Lisa asked.

"That he loved me," said Donna. "Like really loved me and was the person I wanted to spend the rest of my life with?"

"You've said that you were attracted to him for a long time," said Lisa.

"We cared a lot about each other for years," said Donna. "But there was this time on that trip to Hawaii we took before the Inauguration, back when no one even knew we were seeing each other. I decided I was going to marry him that day; it drove me crazy that it took him almost another two months to ask me."

"Well you know I thought you had gone out of your mind when you got engaged as fast as you did," said Lisa with a slight laugh. "And then the way you planned the wedding so quickly? You only told me you were dating the guy in February, then you're engaged in March and married in July! A couple of your aunts and I assumed you were pregnant."

Donna winced a little on the inside; the thought of accidentally getting pregnant seemed like a mean joke. She knew her mother didn't mean any harm by the comment, but her face must have betrayed her thoughts, because suddenly Lisa was nervously backpedaling in the conversation.

"So what was it?" she asked, very quickly. "What gallant thing did he do in Hawaii to prove he was indeed the fair prince? How did he surprise you after you'd known him so long?"

"We were riding in this SUV up a mountain for some sight-seeing thing," Donna started. "And the tie blew out. The front tire blew out so the car kinda came to this really rough stop and kind of crashed down on the front corner. And it really got to me."

"Because of Gaza?" Lisa asked, totally soberly and rather quietly. Donna nodded.

"I started like freaking out," she continued. "I didn't know exactly what was happening to me, but it was like I was there again. It's really only happened to me that one time, but that was bad enough. But Josh, he knew; he understood. He struggled pretty badly after the shooting; you knew that. So he just understood. He really gently put a hand on my shoulder and started breathing slowly with me. It didn't calm me all the way down, but after a few minutes, it got me back into the present moment enough that I could think again. I knew I was in Hawaii not Gaza and that it was a tire and not a bomb." Donna paused when they reached the elevator and hit the "up" button. "Later he said something to me, something that just made me so sure."

 _Back in their hotel room, Donna was so anxious and self conscious that she could hardly stand to look at Josh. She paced around nervously and he watched her calmly for a minute before he gently got her attention. It was time; he knew what he had to say and he hoped his courage wouldn't fail him before he could say it. She needed him to step up in a big way and he was determined to do it._

" _Donna, listen to me," he said, looking at her warmly but very seriously. She avoided meeting his gaze directly; she felt so embarrassed. He was very careful not to crowd her or invade her personal space at all. "Let me tell you a story, ok?"_

 _Donna nodded quietly. Josh took a deep breath._ It's now or never, _he thought to himself_ , you be a man and come through for her now, or your really don't deserve her. _He was terrified of letting her down._

" _A woman is walking down the street," he began, very slowly. "And as she's walking, she falls into this hole. The walls are so steep, she can't climb out, but she sees people walking along on the street above her. A doctor passes by and she calls out to him, 'Doc, please can you help me? I fell down this hole!'. So the doctor writes a prescription and throws it down at her and keeps walking."_

 _Donna was listening, but she couldn't imagine there was much of a useful point to this. It sounded like the setup to a joke. How could he be so tone-deaf as to think she'd want to hear a joke now?_

 _Josh was so afraid to get it wrong, but he continued. "A little while later, she sees a priest walking by, and she calls out to him for help, so the priest writes a prayer, throws that down into the hole and goes on his way. She's still stuck down there with the prescription and the prayer and no way out."_

 _He paused; this was it, he realized. He had to make one more slight alteration to the story Leo had told him all those years ago when he was in that dark place after the shooting. Saying "a friend" wouldn't do._

" _Then someone who loves her walks by," he said softly. That got her attention. "She calls up to him, 'can you help me out?'. And he immediately jumps down into the hole with her."_

" _Josh-" Donna started. Josh reached out for her hand. She let him take it and he held it gently. His warm brown eyes held her gaze._

" _Our girl says, 'what the hell were you thinking? Now we're both stuck down here'," he continued. "And this guy who loves her, this usually helpless and clueless guy, who loves her more than he ever could have imagined it was possible to love someone, says, 'yeah, but I've been down here before and I know the way out'."_

 _Donna started to cry as she fell into his strong embrace. He made her feel safe. She wrapped her arms around him and knew without a shadow of a doubt that this was real and she would never let him go._

* * *

Andrew pensively knocked on the closed door to his patient's room after having his hospital ID badge thoroughly inspected by the agent stationed outside of it. They hadn't exactly covered the procedure for a visiting former head of state in nursing school, but it was time to do a check. Dr. Steadman was adamant that she wanted Josh Lyman up and walking a few times that afternoon and he was far more concerned with her orders than even Secret Service protocol. Two women were checking in as visitors at the nurses' station where the security checkpoint had been set up; Andrew assumed they were coming to see Josh. The full-blown plan to shut down the floor if Santos came up hadn't quite been implemented, but security was still extremely high for the former president.

Inside the room, Josh heard the knocking. He had composed himself while Jed sat patiently.

"Come on in," he called out, clearing his throat and straightening himself out. Andrew came in slowly, very slightly unsure of himself when he saw President Bartlet sitting there. Josh turned to Jed. "Mr. President, this is Andrew, he's my nurse today."

"It's good to meet you Andrew," said Jed, standing up to shake the young man's hand. Andrew took confidently.

"Pleasure to meet you, Mr. President," he replied.

"Listen up, son," said Bartlet staunchly. "I need you to promise me that he's getting the best care possible and that when he leaves here, he's going to be as strong and healthy as possible before he has surgery. Andrew, I need you to promise me that you'll do everything in your power to see that's the case." Josh felt a little self-conscious, but he was touched.

"Of course, sir," Andrew replied.

"I mean it," said the former president, his expression serious. "This guy means the world to a lot of people, including two US presidents. You take good care of him, do you understand me?"

"Mr. President, with all due respect," Andrew began. Jed raised an eyebrow, but the younger man continued anyway. "I take really good care of all my patients. Even the ones who don't know any presidents."

Jed smiled. "That's the right response, of course," he said warmly. "You'll forgive me for my posturing; I'm just really worried about him."

"I think he's gonna do just fine," said Andrew, looking at Josh reassuringly as he said it. Jed nodded. "Mr. Lyman, I want to have you walk to the end of the hall," Andrew explained.

"Doesn't sound so bad," said Josh.

"It's going to be harder than you realize," said Andrew. "You haven't been up and moving much at all in the last twenty-four hours and they couldn't wean you off the oxygen earlier. So we're just gonna go slowly and steadily. I'll follow behind you with the wheelchair and you'll let me know right away if you feel lighted or dizzy, ok?"

Josh nodded and waited patiently while Andrew disconnected his IV, then slowly stood up, taking the handle of a portable oxygen tank by his side, knowing it would be hard to get used to it. The former president followed out the door.

In the hallway, Donna and her mother were making their way towards Josh's room, accompanied by an agent on Josh's detail. Josh sighed and dropped his head.

"What's wrong?" asked Jed.

"My mother-in-law is here," said Josh. Jed had a difficult time suppressing a laugh.

"You have in-law troubles, Mr. Lyman?" Andrew asked.

"Well, put it this way," Josh started. "My wife's older sister, her only sibling, went through a pretty nasty divorce last year; husband had an affair and lied about financial stuff, the works. And I still have managed to retain my status as least favorite son-in-law."

Donna and Lisa picked up their pace a little bit and met them.

"Mr. President," said Donna was a bright smile. Jed hugged her.

"It's wonderful to see you Donna," he said. Lisa, after all this time, still couldn't help but feel impressed that her youngest daughter greeted the former leader of the free world with a hug. "Mrs. Moss," he reached out and shook Lisa's hand; they'd met at the wedding. Jed probably wouldn't have recognized her if Josh hadn't said who she was, but his long career in politics made him skilled at feigning familiarity.

"Hi Lisa," said Josh. To his surprise, she looked genuinely glad to see him.

"You gave us a scare there, Josh," she replied, patting his shoulder in a maternal way.

"We're taking a walk to that end of the hallway," Andrew interrupted. "He's gotta stretch his legs a bit. Why don't we all walk together?" Donna nodded eagerly and came to Josh's side; she was one hundred percent on board with anything that would help him.

"Thank you for that," she whispered to him and grabbed his hand. He smiled sadly at her.

"I wish I could have been there," he said quietly as Donna's mother began to excitedly engage President Bartlet in conversation. "I know it's just a piece of paper, but it's something you deserve. You inspire me, Donna. Your brain and your heart and your instincts, you're unstoppable, even though you had pathetic dope for a boss for a long time."

"You're not a pathetic dope," she said with a smile.

"What?" said Josh, with a feigned expression of horror on his face. "I was talking about those couple months you were working for Will Bailey! Wait, you thought I meant-? Ouch, Donna." She laughed.

By the time they reached the end of the hallway, Josh felt exhausted, just as Andrew had warned. Reluctantly, he sat down in the wheelchair. Jed, leaning heavily on his cane, felt sympathetic; a few short months ago, a walk of that length would have been nearly impossible. Even now that he was back in remission, he felt his muscles tense and twitch in resistance to so much movement. But his attention was on Josh, desperately wishing for the younger man to be alright.

There was a large window facing out into the heart of Madison at the end of the hallway; the odd little group looked out at the view, taking a moment to relax. Suddenly, Lisa stopped something.

"Hey Donna," she said, pointing in one corner of the window. "Is that ugly little yellow building-?"

"Oh my God," said Donna, her face turning a bit red with recognition. "I think it is."

"What?" asked Josh. Donna took a deep breath.

"Well," she began. "As a special treat for you because you're sick and need cheering up, my darling husband, do you see that low-rise with the weird mustard color bricks?" She pointed in the general direction. He craned his neck awkwardly and took a minute to spot it.

"It's quite the dump," he said when he did notice it. "What about it?"

Donna took a deep breath. Suddenly, she didn't feel any embarrassment about this the way she assumed she would. "That's where I lived for almost two years with Dr. Freeride. Our apartment was a third floor walk-up."

"Dr. Freeride?" asked Lisa.

"That's how Josh refers to Peter," said Donna. Lisa laughed out loud; she suddenly felt her new resolve to try to view Josh more charitably was a very good decision.

"You've come a long way, Donnatella," said Jed, thoroughly amused. Josh grinned. She had come a long way, and he was so grateful that her path took her to his office in Manchester all those years ago.

* * *

The next morning, Josh was restless in his room waiting for his discharge papers. Donna had brought him a clean suit to change into so that in case he encountered reporters on his way out, he would look more like himself, in spite of the oxygen. The Secret Service had a car waiting to take them straight to the airport for their flight back home to DC.

When a nurse brought the papers, he hastily signed everything and impatiently tuned out most of the discharge instructions as he sent texts to Sam about the president's schedule. Donna listened attentively and asked questions, which annoyed him a bit.

Once he was officially signed out, a member of the hospital staff appeared in the doorway and to Josh's abject horror, he was pushing an empty wheelchair.

"Absolutely not," snapped Josh before anyone could say a word.

"Mr. Lyman," began the man. "It's standard protocol, I have to insist."

"I can't be seen like that," said Josh petulantly.

"Josh, don't be absurd," said Donna. "It's probably a liability thing; they made Sam leave in a wheelchair when he had that mole taken off a couple years ago, remember?"

"Sam's mole thing wasn't quickly devolving into a side-show scandal during an election year!"

"The president and first lady, and everyone else with the campaign have already left for Chicago," said Donna, trying to hide her frustration. She loved Josh, but sometimes he could be such a little boy about things. "There aren't going to be reporters. Sorry dear, but you aren't so important that the press would linger just for you after the rest of the circus leaves town! We're just going from the door to the car. Just go along with it so we can get the hell out of here!"

He opened his mouth to argue some more, but then he caught the look on her face. She'd had enough of this trip to her home state, and he certainly had as well. So, Josh gathered up his things and got into the chair.

When they came out the front doors of the hospital, Josh and Donna were both stunned to see hospital security was struggling to manage a massive crowd of press. Once Josh could be seen, being pushed in a wheelchair with a cannula in his nose, his eyes were instantly attacked with a barrage of flashbulbs.

"Yeah, thanks for the lift, man," said Josh quickly to the orderly who'd been pushing him. He got right to his feet and grabbed his tank and backpack. He put on his sunglasses as he and Donna ignored the questions being shouted at them and climbed into the backseat of the waiting car.

"Pitbull and Wisconsin in the car," said one of the agents over the radio. "Leaving now."

"Holy shit," Donna whispered nervously as they set off towards the airport.


	10. Chapter 10

**Hi everyone!**

 **Very sorry for the long delay! I've been rather busy this time of year and I did hit some major writer's block. I struggled a little bit with how to handle some of the exposition in this chapter, but I hope it works! Please let me know what you think in the reviews!**

Molly and Huck were playing a board game in the other room while Toby sat down at his laptop to start entering in his final grades for the semester; he was nearly finished, although he had quite dragged his feet on the process, and now his mind kept wandering.

More than a few times, he looked at his phone and went so far as to start dialing Josh, but he never followed through on it. The pictures on the news of him leaving the hospital looking as bad as he did, and the media fixation over the last day was troubling. He regretted having argued with Josh, but seeing this response validated his opinion; Josh's health situation was now fodder for the president's most obnoxious and persistent critics and therefore a major political liability. Whether or not it was reasonable or fair was besides the point. He needed to bow out for the good of his president and the party.

But still, he couldn't help but regret the way he'd gone about trying to convince his old friend of that. So many times over the years, Josh and Toby had failed to effectively communicate with each other; sometimes it seemed like a miracle that their friendship survived it at all. But they had been through so much together and they often did find their way back to remembering that, even when they fought.

Now Toby wanted to call him again, to not leave it there. He wouldn't walk back what he said, but maybe he could apologize for the way he'd said it. Now that Josh was having his surgery so much sooner than expected, he felt a sense of urgency about it. The idea of that being the last conversation he ever had with him distressed Toby. He scrolled through his recent calls to Josh's name and was about to hit "call".

But on the other hand, he thought suddenly and defensively, why should it all be his responsibility? Josh had been too stubborn, as usual, to see what he had to do. All Toby had really done was show him the respect of being honest with him, he told himself. If Josh wanted to talk, he could pick up the phone just as easily. He put the phone back down and instead turned on the TV, looking for something to serve as background noise as he finished his grading.

* * *

Danny Concannon, lying on his back on the floor of his home office was contentedly resigned to the truth that he would get no more work done on his book that day. In truth, it was a bit of stretch to view to that room in the Cregg-Concannon home as an "office" anymore, as gradually more and more toys and random objects were cheerfully carried in and often abandoned by the increasingly ambulatory Emily. Right now she was trying to climb on top of him, without letting go of a beloved plush dinosaur.

Danny reached forward and pulled her up onto his chest. She smiled gleefully.

"Daddy is never going to complete another piece of writing until you go off to college, is he?" he said to her with a grin. "That's ok." He pulled one of her tiny hands towards his face and kissed it. Emily giggled.

CJ appeared in the doorway.

"Danny," she said softly. He looked up at her and saw that she looked anxious and sad, almost like she'd recently had tears in her eyes. This could be very bad, he thought. He knew that CJ had been trying to get an update about Josh. Danny moved Emily off of his chest, then stood up and picked her up.

"What's going on?" he asked.

"I've got to get a flight out to DC for early next week," CJ explained. "They're doing Josh's surgery next Tuesday. I have to be there for him, Danny. For Donna too."

"Of course," said Danny soberly. CJ took Emily off of him, wanting the comfort that would come from holding her. CJ loved her family so much, including the family on the other side of the continent.

"I think I might want to stay a week or two," she said. They visited DC frequently and maintained a condo in Georgetown. "I can work remotely; with the spring grant cycle all finished up, there's not much that's extremely time sensitive and needs my immediate attention in the office. And it won't be for long. Just maybe to help see them through that hardest part. I can bring Donna food, or sit there with him if she needs a break; maybe I can make sure she takes a break." CJ wondered if Donna would stay at home or get a hotel in Baltimore while Josh was still in the hospital; it would be a long drive to make every day, but she didn't doubt for a second that Donna would be there with him every single day.

"I very much doubt that, but yeah, it might not be a bad idea to stick around a bit," Danny replied. "I think you'll feel better too, not leaving until you see that he's doing well. How about I go with you?"

"You wouldn't mind?" CJ asked. She was so relieved that he offered; she had been hoping to have him there for moral support.

"What do you think, young lady?" he asked, addressing Emily. "Wanna spend some time in the Capital?" he added, gently pushing a little strawberry blonde curl out of Emily's eye and coaxing another smile out of her.

CJ smiled. "And a little time in Baltimore? You can cheer up your Uncle Josh when he's in the hospital," she said to her daughter in a light, sing-song voice.

CJ turned back to Danny. "I think I should be around for Sam too," she said quietly, almost as if she were making some terrible admission.

"CJ," Danny started.

"Not the whole time," CJ back-pedaled a bit. "I just know what it was like to be thrown into that job. Sam's a lot more prepared than I was, but Josh and I could both tell him, when it's suddenly you running that ship, you feel so hopelessly alone. Josh will be there for him when he's able to, but Danny, he's probably going to be in intensive care for days after the surgery, and Donna said it could be up to ten days before he goes home even without any complications. Sam won't want to, and really probably shouldn't, go to him with that settling in angst while he's still that unwell. I felt so guilty taking all that to Leo right after his heart attack, but I couldn't help it."

"I don't want you to get pulled down into that rabbit hole," said Danny. "You're happy, we've got things the way we want them."

"I'm not talking about going back, Danny," said CJ, a bit defensively. "Believe me, I am happy with the way things are. I have no intention of-",

"What if the president asks you again?" Danny asked.

"He won't," said CJ, a little annoyed that he'd cut her off. "I've made my feelings clear and he understands."

"What if they feel they need you around more long-term?" Danny started again. "If you're already agreeing to be Sam's lifeline call now, how are you going to say no whe-, if, _if_ God-forbid-"

"Please, let's not do that," she said sharply, cutting him off this time.

"Do what?"

"Bury him already," she said, her face was harsh and resolute.

"CJ, come on," Danny pushed back. "You know that's a totally unfair way to spin what I was trying to say."

"Everyone is just so damn certain that he's gonna die!" she snapped, her voice a little choked up. "Well you know what? I'm not! Ok? I'm not. Ten years ago, I saw him lying on the ground with blood pouring out of a bullet wound in his chest and right before they put him in the ambulance, I kissed his forehead and I told him 'goodbye', because I couldn't see how it was even remotely possible that he'd still be alive when they made it to the hospital! But I was wrong! He lived! It was hard and horrible and he really struggled in a lot of ways, but he fought all the way back from that! He lived through that! He's not going to be finished off by this now."

"He's a fighter, that's for sure," said Danny, trying to sound reassuring as he realized how fiercely CJ needed to cling onto hope for her friend, and that now wasn't the time for his cautioning about not getting drawn too far back into Washington life. He was concerned though. Danny knew her too well not to be. CJ was fiercely loyal to and protective of her friends; he worried how readily she might agree to upend her life if she thought they needed her to.

Suddenly, he thought of something else that was troubling him; he wasn't entirely sure how to bring it up honestly, so he found himself quickly devising an inelegant way around it.

"Hey, let's get a sitter tonight," he said, trying to sound light and upbeat. "Let's go see a movie or something. It'll do you good to have some distraction. We'll take care of booking the flights and then let's look at showtimes."

"A movie?" said CJ skeptically.

"Yeah, why not?" he replied. "You know I'm still dying to see _Sex and the City 2,_ " he added with a laugh. One look at CJ's face told him that he'd overdone it; she saw right through his movie gambit and there was no hope of sticking the landing with a lame joke.

"You want me out of the house when that interview comes on tonight," she stated more than asked. His face got serious again.

"I just don't think any good can come of you watching it," he said gently.

"I don't know that I even intend to watch it," said CJ. "I don't want to see some Fox News Barbie Doll interviewer throw softball questions for an hour at the country's favorite born-again skinhead. Especially not nine days before my friend gets his chest cut open for a second time because of what that guy and his friends did."

Danny looked at her, sensing there was a "but" coming up. CJ re-positioned Emily to her other hip and took a deep breath.

"There is a part of me that's curious," she added quietly. "I wonder what he has to say for himself after all this time. I think I shouldn't wonder, but I do. Maybe it's like a really terrible, ugly and vengeful part of me that thinks I'll enjoy seeing if he looks really sick. But maybe not, maybe it's the ridiculous, naive, bleeding heart part of me that thinks maybe he really could have changed. I don't know for sure."

"Then let's not even go there," said Danny. "Let's go have a few drinks, see some garbage movie and laugh like children to the annoyance of other people trying to watch the garbage movie, then have a nice dinner at a restaurant that's too fancy to have TVs. If you're still curious later, there'll be write-ups and blogs and analysis and dozens of clips on YouTube, but you can look at all that on your terms."

"You might be right," she said quietly. He knew her so well. She and Danny were very well suited to each other; they often seemed to know just what the other one needed. "I'll see if Katie's free to sit for a few hours tonight."

* * *

In the car back towards the Indianapolis airport to finally complete their three state Midwest swing, Sam and the president were quiet. The healthcare town hall had gone well; Matt Santos was at his best when he had a forum to speak candidly about his policy priorities. But Sam worried that it wasn't going to be enough to get the attention back onto the campaign and the president's agenda; Josh's hospitalization had been the top story, and now the LeRoy interview was about to air. Suddenly, this huge campaign trip seemed like it had done little to move the needle. Sam was acutely aware that Josh would have come to this conclusion himself and he worried how badly his friend would take that to heart.

"I spoke to Josh this morning, Sam," said Matt after a fairly long silence. It had been a whirlwind day, and this was the first chance he had to really talk to Sam. "He's talking to Lou to finalize a statement for first thing tomorrow. I'm going to let him speak for himself, at least to give him that dignity, then I think I want to say a few things."

"Sir?" Sam asked.

"Make it very clear that I'm with him," said Matt. "They're beating up on him pretty hard, and I want to make it very clear that he has the support of the president and that he's coming back to his post after he recovers."

"I can draft some remarks if you'd like," Sam offered. Even though it was technically outside of his purview as Deputy Chief of Staff, Sam's unmatched skill with words meant that he was frequently called upon to find the right sound-bite or bring a speech from good to great with a few minor adjustments. But now the president was shaking his head.

"No," he said. "You don't write speeches anymore, Sam." His expression was serious. "Until August, you are the White House Chief of Staff and the White House Chief of Staff does not write speeches. That's gotta be the other part of what I say in that briefing room tomorrow, that you're the guy and the ship's in good hands with you. I won't be coy, there are people who are skeptical of that, but I'm not one of them, and I'm going to make that very clear."

"Assure the press and the party that it's all perfectly fine and business as usual even if Josh dies, right?" Sam said morosely. As soon as he said it, he regretted it; airing out his discomfort with the situation like that was a line he knew he shouldn't cross with the president. Fortunately, Matt was sympathetic and patient with him.

"You know that's not what I mean," he said calmly.

"I know, sir," said Sam quickly. "I apologize."

"Damn it, I keep going over it in my head," said Santos apprehensively. "Was there more that I should have done? Like should I have insisted he leave the White House when this first happened? Is he worse off going into this now because I didn't put my foot down? He serves at the pleasure of the president; why didn't I insist it was my pleasure that he stay home and get well once I found out he needed major surgery?"

"That would have killed him," Sam replied softly. "In all the years I've known him, he's never been able to tolerate sitting still while the world moves on without him. When he was shot, we were gearing up for our first midterms, and he was stuck at home reading science magazines. It made him miserable. He told me once he felt like he was in prison."

"I don't want to make him feel like the world is moving on without him," replied the president. "But he needs to know that it won't come crashing down in ruin if he steps out for a while to take care of himself."

Sam smiled sadly. He wasn't sure exactly how much Matt Santos knew about Josh's past; so few people did know about the fire. That night, a little boy acting more from fear and instinct than even making an actual conscious choice, took care of himself by escaping a burning house, and the world as he knew it did come crashing down in ruin. That constellation of grief and guilt became so intimately familiar to Josh Lyman, well into adulthood. It reared its head again when Josh, this time as a man in his thirties chasing a dream, was doing a victory dance in Illinois right before he found out his beloved father had died.

"I just thank God he has Donna now," Sam replied eventually. "I think there's a real chance that bachelor Josh would have just ignored this; he might have died last winter when he first had the problem."

"Bachelor Josh?" said the president, with a bit of a smile in spite of Sam's serious tone. "Yeah, that sounds about right. I'm glad he's got her."

Sam relaxed a little bit. "And it was a long time coming; they'd been crazy about each other for years. It was obvious to everyone in the world but them. At least they figured it out eventually."

"What about Bachelor Sam?" Matt began in a teasing tone, a little bit eager to get off the subject of Josh's health and onto something lighter; it had been a draining few days. "Any chance there's a Helen or a Donna out there for you, you know to make sure you live to be fifty?"

Sam laughed audibly. "My impressive resume includes two broken engagements, sir."

"Did you see Ainsley Hayes on _Hot Seat_ getting all worked up when they attacked you?" Matt teased. "It was kinda cute."

"I pride myself on not watching that show," Sam shot back, suddenly feeling a twinge of genuine embarrassment.

"I just saw a clip," said the president, resisting the charge of watching a Fox News show. "She was defending your honor. Very pretty girl, defending your honor on national TV."

"She's an old friend, that's all."

"You're looking a little red there Sam," said Matt, now sporting a wide grin.

"Just an old friend," he muttered, turning his head to look out the window, hoping to hide his face a bit.

* * *

"Hold still," said Donna impatiently as she rolled up the sleeve of Josh's t-shirt and tried again to attach the blood pressure cuff around his bicep.

"This nurse thing is really turning me on," he said with cheesy smile; she didn't look amused.

"Stop being a child," she said quietly as she finally managed to get it in place and hit the button. "We're supposed to check this twice a day; you should be able to do take care of it yourself, but you just seem to have a special aptitude for helplessness."

"Can we try school teacher next?" He was sitting stretched out on the couch with his oxygen on the end table and Shea lying with her head in his lap. Donna rolled her eyes then turned her attention to the machine's digital screen. Josh winced a little when it tightened all the way, but she didn't feel he deserved any sympathy or pity for that.

"It's a little high still," she said. They had strict instructions for Josh to go straight to the emergency room if it reached a certain threshold. "But it seems like it's moving in the right direction."

Josh peeled the velcro cuff off quickly and tossed it aside. Donna sat down on the other side of the couch, the dog still sprawled out between them. Josh started absentmindedly giving Shea a scratch behind the ear and slightly staring out into the living room.

"How are you feeling?" Donna asked him quietly. He smiled slightly, trying to be patient, but he was starting to tire of being asked that.

"Fine," he said. "Honestly, I feel fine; I slept decently last night for the first time since we left for Wisconsin."

"That's good," said Donna reassuringly. They sat quietly for a little while as Donna's mind started to wander a bit. After their exhausting and frightening ordeal in Wisconsin, it was so nice to be home, even with all that was ahead of them.

"Hey Josh," she started, suddenly thinking of something. He turned to her.

"Yeah?"

"Have you talked to Toby at all?" she asked quietly. Josh let out a disgusted sigh.

"He hasn't called to apologize, so no," said Josh defensively. "No, I have not."

"I get why you're mad at him," Donna started.

"Of course you do!" Josh interrupted. "Of course you get why I'm mad at him, because he was a total prick and anyone would be mad at him!"

"I mean that-"

"What?" Josh snapped. "You're defending him?"

"I think this isn't a good time to fight with a friend," Donna blurted out quickly.

"Tell him that," Josh shot back. Donna took a deep breath.

"Sometimes it takes more courage and dignity to be the person who reaches out first," said Donna gently. "My grandmother used to say that."

"Did one of your grandmother's closest friends ever call her in the hospital to kick her while she was down? Screw courage and dignity."

"Josh, from what you told me, I really don't know if he was trying to kick you while you were down," Donna said carefully. "I think he could have been more tactful and maybe it's not really his business, but I think, in his weird sort of Toby-way, he just meant to give you the advice he thought you needed."

"Do you agree with him?" Josh asked, suddenly very agitated.

"That you should resign?" Donna asked.

"Yeah," Josh started. "Is that where this is coming from? You want me to resign too?"

Donna took a deep breath. "Josh, if you resigned right now, you would have a few dozen offers for obscenely high paying and low stress private sector jobs within the hour. We would be beating head-hunters off with a stick. You could take all the time you needed to recover from your surgery, go on our trip and everything, and then take your pick of what corporate boards you want to sit on and collect a seven figure income for showing up most of the time. If you think that doesn't appeal to me, your wife who loves you, worries constantly about your health, and could easily get used to a certain lifestyle-"

"I'm not going to do it!" Josh snapped.

"Joshua, shut up a second," Donna countered. He closed his mouth but glared petulantly at her. "I know you're not going to do it, and I wouldn't even think of asking you to do it. Sure, that sounds nice, but I know you'd be really unhappy, and even though it might suit your current mood to think everyone's against you right now, I'm not; I love you and I want you to be happy. So no, I don't think you should resign. I think you should spend a little time thinking about life after the White House, because sooner or later, either next year or in four years, you'll need to have some idea what you want that to look like, but I know that this still where you need to be."

"So why bring it up?" Josh asked defensively.

"Because even if leaving now isn't what you want to do, or even what you should do, there's at least a chance Toby honestly thought he was telling you what you needed to hear," said Donna. "Maybe he thought he could help you see that there is life after it."

"Toby knows about life after the White House because he committed a crime and threw away his career," Josh shot back. "And he's telling me that I should throw my career away because I was unlucky enough to have been shot ten years ago. Yeah, we're exactly alike. God, I can't believe you're defending him!"

"I'm not defending him," said Donna. "I think the way he said it was crappy, but I don't think it's worth throwing away years of friendship over! Not at a time like this."

"A time like this?" said Josh, defensively. Donna suddenly felt nervous.

"You know what I mean," she said quietly.

"No, I don't think I do," said Josh. "Please enlighten me."

"I don't want you to have regrets," she replied, almost at a whisper. Josh took a deep breath and tilted his head towards the ceiling, biting his lip slightly in an effort to maintain his composure.

"Well, if there are regrets to be had, it's not gonna be me who has to live with them," said Josh bitterly. "And of the many, many 'what if this goes wrong?' things weighing very heavily on my mind, whether or not Toby Ziegler feels guilty doesn't exactly make the cut!"

"Alright," said Donna. She didn't want to fight him about this; she'd said her peace and possibly overdone it a bit. It bothered her to think that Josh might go into this ordeal on bad terms with a close friend, but clearly he wasn't willing or able to see past it now. "I'm sorry I brought it up."

"I'm not calling him," said Josh, resolutely. "If he calls me, I'll talk to him, but I'm not calling him."

"Okay."

* * *

Late that night, each in their respective cities far away from each other, Josh Lyman, CJ Cregg and Toby Ziegler found themselves restless and unable to sleep.

Danny had been wise to suggest an evening out; CJ found she welcomed the distraction and they'd had a very nice time. But now, finding herself awake at about one in the morning, she couldn't shake the intense curiosity about that damn interview. Her mind kept racing back to it, and now with both Danny and Emily sound asleep, there was nothing to distract her from it.

She slowly and quietly got out of bed, careful not to disturb Danny. With the air conditioning running at full strength in the early California summer, it was a bit cool in the house, so she pulled a slightly worn out Berkeley sweatshirt from her dresser drawer and put it on before tiptoeing quietly past the baby's room and down the stairs. Her MacBook was sitting on the kitchen counter, connected to its charger for the night. CJ made herself a cup of hot tea in the microwave and sat at the breakfast island, opening the laptop.

Her browser home screen was full of links to clips and articles about the interview. What struck CJ so prominently though, was a picture of him in an orange prison uniform.

Carl LeRoy was in fact, still a very young man, not even thirty. The last time CJ had seen him, in court a little more than nine years ago, his head was shaved. Today, he was still almost completely bald, but now not on purpose; there were small grayish patches of fuzz growing back in at different rates, most of it so short it was barely noticeable. His skin was blotchy and his eyes reflected perpetual discomfort and exhaustion.

CJ almost didn't notice it at first, but when she did, she felt a knot in her stomach. He had a cannula in his nose, giving him oxygen. She glanced at the caption of the photo.

 _Carl LeRoy, 29_ , _is undergoing treatment for metastatic thyroid cancer._

Scrolling down and skimming part of an article, she read that the cancer was in his lungs. But the image bothered her. The day before, the internet had been blanketed with photos of Josh leaving a hospital in Wisconsin on oxygen. When she'd spoken to him today, he'd told her that he had to keep using it until after the operation, much to his chagrin and disgust.

She clicked on a clip embedded in the article.

"What is your prognosis like?" asked the interviewer.

LeRoy took a ragged breath. "It's not very good," he said quietly.

"Did they give you an idea of what to expect?"

"How long, you mean?" he asked.

"Yes."

LeRoy smiled a little bit. "The actual cancer doctor doesn't really spend much time talking to me. I was telling you before, it's a whole big thing when I go for the chemo and stuff, with the guards and the shackles and everything. But I see the prison doc every week and he's pretty good about telling me straight, you know?" He paused a little. "He told me it depends a little on his this round of chemo goes."

"How so?"

"They'll do a scan and decide whether it made enough of a difference to keep trying," said LeRoy. "He said there might be a surgery they could try. But even then, he said, best case scenario, might be about six months to a year."

"Are you afraid?"

"No ma'am," he answered very quickly.

"Why not?"

"Because my God is so much bigger than cancer or prison," he said with a little bit of a smile. "This is a part of His plan. If it's His plan for me to beat this, I'm gonna beat it, but if it's not, then I won't. But I'm saved now. I don't have to be afraid of dying."

"That's very inspiring," said the interviewer.

CJ kept scrolling when the clip concluded. The article talked about his diagnosis and the logistics of a high security federal inmate receiving off-site cancer treatments. It discussed how LeRoy himself had somewhat limited rights to make all the decisions about his own treatment; the Department of Corrections wouldn't consent to any clinical trials and he had to see the oncologist based out of the closest community hospital. The idea of that seemed to, at least on an intellectual level, offend CJ's sense of fairness, but she couldn't seem to stir up any genuine feelings of sympathy for the man. If anything, she just found herself feeling more and more distressed about Josh.

In New York, Toby was pacing up and down the halls in his apartment. Molly had woken up crying from a bad dream about an hour ago, and Toby dutifully checked the closet for monsters as she sat anxiously on the edge of the bed, read a couple of books with her, and sat up with her until she fell back asleep. He knew the days of these types of silly little rituals were numbered; the kids were seven now and gradually outgrowing it. The thought made Toby a little sad.

She was sound asleep again and Toby was wide awake. He caught himself feeling guilty about the way he'd talked to Josh again, but there was nothing to do about it; it was the middle of the night, so he couldn't call him now, and Toby knew there was a decent chance that come morning, his mind would change. He found himself wishing Josh would just call him; that would be so much simpler.

After a while, he made his way to the living room. Careful to keep the volume low, Toby flipped on the television. The commentators on CNN were dissecting the LeRoy interview.

Toby never had any intention of watching; he felt a deep and visceral seething rage for the man that hadn't softened. Every single time he heard the subject brought up, the memory of finding Josh on the steps of the Newseum and his plan to abandon all his ideals to go after the hate groups in the aftermath flooded back to him.

Now, here in the middle of the night, it was in front of his eyes on CNN.

"This question of a pardon is a complicated one," began one of the commentators, a professor of criminal law. "There's really no precedent for a situation quite like this."

"And we only have an official statement from one of the victims in this case," added the host. "Stephanie Abbott, whose leg was badly injured in the shooting has said she actually supports a pardon for Carl LeRoy. But we have no public statements from former President Bartlet, Ron Butterfield or Joshua Lyman."

"And don't forget Charles Young," chimed in another commentator, a black woman. "The former personal aide to President Bartlet, now an attorney and his son-in-law. He wasn't shot that night, but he certainly is one of the victims."

Toby found that he strongly agreed with her; it was obnoxious to leave Charlie off the original list of victims. He was a twenty-one year old boy who found himself the target of an attempted murder because of a college romance; of course he was a victim of the crime.

"Nothing official from him either," the host summarized.

"How much does that matter though?" posited the last guest. "We have a criminal justice system because there's value in putting some separation between perpetrators and victims. It's a hard truth to stomach, but victims' feelings aren't the chief concern for the law and there is good reason for that."

"But pardons are different," countered the law professor. "We're not talking about giving or withholding something Carl LeRoy has a legal right to. He had a fair trial and is serving a life sentence; he'll be eligible for parole in another ten years-"

"He'll be long dead in ten years," interrupted the other guest. Toby scoffed. Why should that matter? The courts didn't give the guy a disease; that was just bad luck that anyone could be the victim of.

"Switching gears a little bit to a hypothetical," began the host. "Do you think there's a reasonable argument to be made that the sentence was excessive?"

"Absolutely not," said the woman immediately. "They shot the president of the United States."

"Carl LeRoy didn't," someone else argued.

"That doesn't matter," said the law professor. "He was an accomplice to the crime and according to his confession and guilty plea, and what he alluded to tonight even, he was heavily involved in the planning of the attack. Under both federal and Virginia law, he's as legally culpable as if he'd pulled the trigger."

"What about the fact that there were no fatalities?" asked the host. "Does this pardon conversation look a little different if say, Josh Lyman had died?"

Toby didn't wait to hear the response; he turned the TV off and leaned back on the couch.

Josh never had the heart to tell her, but Donna snored.

Most of the time, he slept heavily enough that it didn't bother him, but occasionally, if he was restless anyway, the sound kept him wide awake. Right now, he guessed that he'd been lying there staring at their bedroom ceiling for nearly half an hour. He glanced over at the clock on his night stand; it was a little before four. In another hour and a half, it would be time to wake up for the day, so he decided it wasn't worth trying to go back to sleep.

He got out of bed, not being particularly careful not to disturb Donna; she was clearly in no danger of waking up any time soon. His oxygen tank, while compact and easy enough to carry in an over-the-shoulder case, was still a strange addition to everything he did. He picked it up off the end table and carried it with him as he stumbled around in the partially lit room to grab a t-shirt from the dresser.

Before he put the shirt on, Josh glanced down at his bare chest and looked at his scars. He was so used to them now that they hardly ever caught his attention, but right now, he felt transfixed by the sight of them. The actual site where the bullet pierced his chest was lower and slightly off to the side, forming a jagged star-like shape. This scar was darker and more pronounced than the other.

Josh ran his fingers along the surgical incision that ran down the center line of his sternum. It was very faint now, just a dull pinkish white color that barely contrasted with the rest of his skin. This would change forever soon; with the new surgery would come a new scar. Josh wondered if someday there would be two distinct lines or just one very pronounced one.

Finally he looked at the deep and well defined reddish line that ran almost the entire length of his right palm. Looking at this one, he felt an uncomfortable combination of fear and shame.

He shook his head and pulled the shirt on quickly. He couldn't dwell on thoughts like these; he would need to be strong today. So, wearing a t-shirt and shorts and carrying his tank, Josh went downstairs and sat on the couch next to Shea, who was snoring even more loudly than Donna.

Flipping through the news apps on his smartphone, Josh cringed that nearly every story was about Carl LeRoy and every thumbnail picture showed his face. He wanted to pretend it wasn't happening. He didn't feel strong enough to deal with this now.

One video tag caught his attention and made his heart start to pound. He knew he should ignore it, but he couldn't.

 _VIDEO: Carl LeRoy's Message to Joshua Lyman_

Josh's hands started to sweat. He took a deep breath and tried to recall all of the calming exercises his therapist had given him. He knew he needed to maintain his composure; his blood pressure had been improving and the last thing he wanted was to end up back in the hospital now with another episode.

The best and most logical thing, he knew, would be to ignore it, but in that strange little moment in the middle of the night, Josh couldn't help himself. He clicked the link and played the clip.

"This program is going to air on Sunday, but we're filming here on Friday afternoon," began the interviewer. "So there may be more information about this, but right now, we just know that Josh Lyman had to be rushed to the ER on the campaign trail yesterday because of an internal bleeding episode."

"I heard that," said LeRoy, looking serious. "Saw it on the news."

"Josh Lyman, as many viewers will remember, was very seriously wounded at Rosslyn," she continued. "He underwent fourteen hours of surgery and nearly died. So Carl, I think I want to ask you, what, if anything, would you want to say specifically to him? To Joshua Lyman if he's watching?"

LeRoy paused and cleared his throat. Josh tensed up but watched intently. "There's not much I think I could say to him that I'd wanna share with everybody that's gonna see this," LeRoy said after a long pause.

"What do you mean?"

"My friends and I hurt that man very badly," said LeRoy. "He came closer to losing his life than anyone else did. And back then, when my heart was full of hate, I said some sickening things about him, 'cause of his religion and things like that, after I knew who he was."

"I pray for him," he continued. "I pray for Josh Lyman every day."

"What do you pray about for him?"

"I want him to have peace and joy," said LeRoy. "Like I've found. Especially now, if he's sick or something. I hope for him to feel Jesus' love and peace and be filled with it like I am."

It annoyed Josh profoundly when the interviewer didn't immediately press him on what he meant by that. How dare this guy make any assumptions about his life?

"So what would you say to him?" she asked again. Josh listened intently.

"That I'm so sorry," LeRoy said earnestly. "That sounds dumb I know; guy almost died and I'm saying I'm sorry."

"It does sound dumb," Josh mumbled under his breath. "Sounds dumb because it is dumb."

"But what I'd really want to do," LeRoy continued, swallowing heavily. "What I hope for, even though it probably ain't gonna happen…"

"What's that?" the interviewer probed.

LeRoy took a deep, labored breath. "I want to see him," he started. "I'd like to look him in the eye and ask for his forgiveness, man to man."

Josh felt his eyes widen in shock.

"Wow," said the interviewer.

"I know it's not going to happen," said LeRoy. "He's got no reason to want to talk to me and I understand that. But it would give me some peace. I have him on my visitors list, if he ever felt he wanted to come see me, even if it was just to tell me to f- off."

Josh closed the tab and locked his phone screen. He'd had enough. Leaning back on the couch, he felt vaguely proud of himself for staying as calm as he had, as though he'd faced a fear. It was strange and troubling to see and hear LeRoy talking about him, but it didn't shake him quite as badly as he was afraid it might. And since he would surely be asked about it during his press conference later, a part of him felt a little better knowing he wasn't entirely in the dark about it.

Suddenly, he heard movement upstairs. Donna must have woken up, he realized. He stood up and started moving towards the stairs.

From up the stairs, he heard the sound of an uncomfortable hacking cough; without a second thought, he ran up the stairs into the bathroom.

Donna was hunched over the toilet, groaning miserably as she vomited. Josh, very distressed that she looked so uncomfortable, but also slightly squeamish, summoned all of his courage and resolve to crouch down next to her and hold her hair back.

"Shhhhhh," he whispered, stroking her back as she emptied more contents of her stomach into the toilet. She was shaking a little bit. Josh realized suddenly that dashing up the stairs the way he had was probably ill-advised in his condition; he was out of breath. The couple must have looked like quite the pair.

When Donna was finished, she sat up and looked at Josh; he looked rough. They smiled at each other.

"I'm sorry," she mumbled in a hoarse voice.

"No, no, don't be," said Josh. He glanced, accidentally, at the toilet and immediately reached over to flush it so as not to have to look at the vomit again. Donna laughed a little at him.

"Are you ok?" he asked, still rubbing her back comfortingly. She smiled and nodded.

"I feel silly about this," she started. "I had this really terrible dream. Then I woke up and you weren't there and I just kinda laid there, half awake, making myself so anxious that I got sick to my stomach."

Josh pulled her close to his chest. They sat together awkwardly on the floor of their bathroom for a little while.

"Are you ready for today?" Donna asked eventually.

"As I'll ever be," said Josh. He had finally caught his breath.

"It's gonna be ok," said Donna quietly, putting her hand on his chest. He smiled.

"I know," he said, somewhat to his own surprise. "Strangely enough, I feel like I know it's gonna be ok." He kissed her forehead. "As long as I've got you, I think it's all gonna be ok."


	11. Chapter 11

**Hi again! Struggling a bit with the writer's block again. I'm having a little trouble getting the plot of this story moving along at the pace I'd like to, but I decided to go ahead and publish a shorter chapter now, even though plot-wise, it's not very event-filled. The next chapter should have much more meat to it. But I hope you enjoy this one. Here we've got Josh's last day in the White House before taking his leave, so I tried to do justice to how emotional that situation would be. I hope you enjoy this chapter; as always, please review!**

Donna still felt a little nauseous as she dressed for work but she did her best to ignore it. Often, when she didn't feel well, the stubborn streak of her temperament took over as she pressed on with her day; she would put on a favorite outfit, spend an extra few minutes on her hair and makeup and try to just will an upset stomach or a bad headache to go away. She knew right away this would have to be one of those times. Josh needed her; a sick day was simply not an option. So, she pulled from her closet, a kelly green dress and a white blazer and started her day.

The details of the nightmare that woke her up were fading quickly, but Donna couldn't quite shake the discomfort of it. This wasn't an uncommon experience for her, especially this time of the year. The anniversary of the roadside bombing was approaching, which tended to bring some of those harsh memories to the forefront of her mind. Now, when her thoughts were so heavily occupied with fear for Josh, and Gaza loomed in the background, it seemed there was no comfortable or easy place to rest her attention. She thought then that it was no wonder waking up, frightened and disoriented in an empty bed with no idea where he'd gone was enough to make her stomach turn. She didn't want to dwell on it.

She finished putting on her makeup in the bathroom mirror and walked back into the bedroom to see Josh clumsily adjusting his tie with the oxygen tube in the way. She could see the frustration simmering on his face, so she quietly walked up to him and took over.

"Thanks," he said quietly. She smiled at him reassuringly as she finished tying his tie.

"You look good," she told him. He was wearing a well tailored dark charcoal suit with a crisp light blue shirt and a navy tie. She'd picked it out for him a few months ago, and it became one of his favorites.

"Will this tie work in the briefing room?" he asked quietly, almost under his breath and slightly avoiding eye contact with her. Donna was so attentive to little details like that, whether a color would be washed out by the lights, or if a pattern would vibrate in a strange way on camera. She'd always had good instincts for it too, even back in the early days of the Bartlet Administration before she'd really gained much experience.

"It's perfect," she replied confidently. He smiled weakly at her.

"Should we go get this over with?" he asked hesitantly. She smiled and nodded in reply. Suddenly Josh felt guilty; she was sick and still going out of her way to take such care of him. "How are you feeling? Are you sure you don't want to stay home?" he asked nervously, hoping it wouldn't seem like too much of an afterthought.

"I'm fine," she said. "I took an antacid; that should help."

Josh just nodded, silently relieved; he didn't want to do this without her.

When they arrived at the White House, the main lobby was bustling with people arriving for the morning. Josh felt self conscious as he noticed more than a few lower level staffers averting their eyes at the sight of him with his oxygen tank slung over his shoulder along with his backpack. Donna kissed his cheek and straightened a pin on his lapel.

"I'll be there when you're heading over to the briefing room," she said quietly. He smiled and they went their separate ways.

When he reached his office, he glanced around the room nostalgically. Sam would be working out of this office for the rest of the summer after today. He needed to take home his personal items and identify any documents or files that would need to be archived. The president still had to officially appoint Sam as acting Chief of Staff after Josh commenced his leave; once he did, Sam would have an extensive briefing with the National Security Advisor and the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs. Josh would have little left to do but go home.

Margaret brought him a few boxes for his things; she wanted to offer him help, but she knew him well enough to sense that he might prefer to do a lot of this by himself, so she stayed outside at her desk and worked on making sure an intern or two would be around to carry the boxes to Josh's car for him. She would make a point of telling the interns that it was because Josh was too important and high ranking to carry his own boxes, not because he was weak or in particular need of help.

Josh slowly started to take some photos off his desk and the walls. The oldest was one of him and his grandfather, taken when he was about nine; there were very few Lyman family photos from much before then. His favorite of the more recent pictures was one of Donna on their wedding day. He carefully packed up his autographed baseball and its glass case.

The senior staff would start to assemble for their morning meeting soon and Josh had made minimal progress. Suddenly, the door between his office and the Oval opened. Slightly startled, Josh lept to his feet. President Santos peered his head in.

"I'm sorry to sneak up on you like that Josh," he said quietly. "I just thought we might take a minute before the others start filing in," he continued, holding the door open. Josh came straight over.

"Of course, sir," he said, stepping into the Oval Office. When the door was closed again and they were in private, the President really took in the sight of his Chief of Staff. It was the first time he'd actually seen him since they were backstage before his speech at the church in Wisconsin. Josh quite simply looked like he was sick.

"I'm sure you're sick of being asked how you're feeling so I'll spare you that," he began. Josh smiled. The President's expression turned serious. "I just wasn't sure I'd have another chance to talk to you alone while you're here, and there are some things I need to tell you."

Josh glanced down at the floor, deferentially, trying to fortify himself for what was coming.

"You brought me here Josh," he said, looking around the room with awe and wonder in his eyes. "You took me from a three-term stint in the House to the Oval Office. We've met with some tough opposition, especially in the last year and a half, but we've accomplished a hell of a lot too. And none of it would have happened if you didn't show up on my doorstep in Houston at Christmas five years ago."

"You saved me from having to pick between Bingo Bob Russell and a scandal torn John Hoynes," said Josh with a smile, again reverting to that instinct of his to deflect sincere praise.

"You've gotta come through this, ok?" began Matt again, trying very hard to keep his emotions in check; it wouldn't be presidential to let them get the better of him. "I still need you."

Josh smiled appreciatively, but inside, the wheels in his mind were turning. The President seemed to sense what he was thinking.

"But it's going to be alright in the meantime," he said, remembering his earlier conversation with Sam. "I have a great staff and you've spent four years imparting a lot of priceless knowledge onto people who were very talented to begin with. You get well, take your vacation with Donna and come back ready for war in the fall. I'm going to beat Sullivan and keep at this another four years; there's still a lot of work to do. I want you here to help me accomplish it, but what you've already put in place with this staff is so good and so strong, that it really will be alright until then."

Josh looked up, very relieved to hear him say that. "Thank you, sir," he replied quietly.

"Let's sit down, shall we?" said Matt, taking a chair. Josh did the same, placing his tank awkwardly to the side of his lap.

"You're going to be asked about LeRoy," said Matt calmly, shifting his attention to the press conference. "Are you ready with what you want to say about that?"

Josh cleared his throat. "I think so," he replied. "I'm not going to engage much on it if I can avoid it. If they want to know the White House's position, I'll tow Lou's line of 'Counsel's office doesn't comment on active pardon petitions'; if they want to know my position, it's 'that's a personal and private matter'. They won't like that, but I don't care."

"If you don't mind my asking, Josh, what is your position? Really?" said the president candidly. "We've talked about it as an administration up and down from the legal and political angles, but you and I haven't really spent much time discussing how you feel about it."

"I want to never have to think about the son of a bitch again," said Josh quickly, much more freely and abruptly than he intended; he almost felt embarrassed. It was like when he'd talked to Jed Bartlet, he'd opened a floodgate that he was struggling to contain again. "The person who actually put a bullet in my chest has been dead for a decade. I don't even know for sure who, which of the two, it was; the final forensic report from the FBI concluded that the round they took out of me could have been fired from either gun. But there's one person responsible for what happened to me who's still alive and I hate the thought of him getting out of prison. Especially now, when it doesn't feel like it was even all that long ago."

Matt took a deep breath and nodded contemplatively.

"If you don't mind my asking, sir," Josh began, very tentatively, almost afraid of the response. "What's your position?"

President Santos paused for what felt like a long time, trying to find his words. Eventually, he cleared his throat and spoke.

"You know," he began. "I almost quit politics entirely because of Rosslyn."

"Sir?" Josh asked, surprised.

"It was during my first Congressional campaign, when I was mayor of Houston," the president elaborated. "First thing, the morning after, I had a briefing from the FBI, where they told me that my family and I might be in danger."

Josh felt his stomach twist. This had never specifically occurred to him, but now that it was brought to his attention, of course it made sense.

"It wasn't public knowledge yet that the shooters were white supremacists," Santos elaborated. "But they knew and they briefed me on what they had learned. I was the mayor of a major city and the FBI wanted to coordinate with state and local police departments around the country in case more attacks like that were planned in other places. Of course I told them they'd have whatever they needed and that Houston PD was well prepared for a crisis, but then they said they needed to talk to me specifically about my personal security.

"Peter was three and Miranda was about four or five months," he continued. "Like a lot of places in the South, Houston has to deal with a share of racially motivated violence. From living there most of my life and a career in city government, I was very aware of it, but once they started telling me specifically that the shooters had targeted Charlie Young because of Zoey Bartlet and that the FBI was specifically worried about my family because I'm Latino and Helen is white, that shook me.

"Every office I ran for," he continued. "Just raised my profile a little bit more. City Council, Mayor, now Congress. And there was my family, on camera and in pictures right along with me. It's always been tough on Helen and it's really all the kids have ever known. I dragged them into this world and that day I was made painfully aware that I might have been putting them in actual danger with it. By the afternoon, I had my mind made up; I was going to drop out of the Congressional race, not run for another term as mayor and go find something in the private sector to do."

"What changed your mind?" Josh asked. The president smiled.

"When I got home, Helen was watching the news," he started carefully. "I had talked to her a lot on the phone during the day, she knew what I was thinking and she told me she'd support whatever I decided to do. I think maybe she liked the idea. But then when I got home, she was still watching the news, volume on pretty low because of the baby, but it was non-stop covering of the shooting. She turned to me and said they'd just reported that the Bartlet staffer who'd been in surgery all night was still alive."

Josh's eyes widened in shock. He opened his mouth to speak, but found he couldn't arrive at any words.

"And then I had this thought," the president continued. "I said to myself 'if this poor bastard is still fighting, I think maybe I've gotta keep fighting too.' And so she and I talked about it. I realized that I couldn't do that to my kids; I'd be letting them down in some terrible way if I gave up on public service because of people who hated us. I still had good ideas for how to make this a better country for them, and I had to keep fighting for that, even if it terrified me. Helen saw that too. We talked extensively with the FBI and the Houston PD coming up with a plan to keep the kids safe, I wore vests at public events for a little while, Helen scaled back on which events she would go to, security was a little tighter everywhere and we just kept going."

"Mr. President, I," Josh started, still unsure what to say. "I never knew all that," he added, very quietly.

"Maybe I should have told you a long time ago," replied Matt. "I just know that you don't like to talk about Rosslyn and I've always wanted to respect that. I guess I thought that if I told you this, it'd be like trying to make this terrible thing that happened to you about me somehow, which seems so wrong it's almost vulgar."

Josh took a deep breath. "Thanks for sharing that now," he said quietly but with an intense sincerity. Matt nodded and Josh cleared his throat. "Sir, you had to know that I would notice you never actually answered my question, right? What is your position on LeRoy?"

"I've spent a lot of time thinking about it over the last few months," he said, with a slight smile. "I believe hate like that is a choice. Carl LeRoy chose hate and violence."

Matt paused uncomfortably, trying to select his words very carefully. Josh watched intently.

"I think he chose hate," he began again. "But in that same way, I think he also chose to stop hating. I was sure for the longest time I wouldn't even think of pardoning him, but I've started to wonder if there's an opportunity here."

"An opportunity?" Josh asked, trying to keep his agitation in check.

"If by signing the damn paper and letting him die at home," Matt began slowly, "I might be able to send a message that it's worthwhile to make that kind of choice to reject it. He's not going to live very long; pardoning him wouldn't spare him the many years in prison that he should rightfully have to serve. If not for the fact that he's dying, I wouldn't even consider it. But maybe letting him die at home shows just enough humanity to make some kind of a difference to someone; maybe there's someone else out there who's chosen hate, but maybe hasn't gone so far as to hurt someone yet, who hears about this and it helps him change his mind, to choose humanity instead. That's the only reason I'd consider it."

Josh took a deep breath. "That's what you think?" he asked, calmly, not judgmentally.

"It is," Matt replied, more confidently this time.

"Then I think you should go ahead and pardon him," said Josh.

"What?"

"The people chose you, sir," he elaborated. "You have the power to make this decision and if that's how you see it, I think you need to trust your instincts on this one. The way I feel about it, or the way anyone else feels about it comes in a distant second."

"I'm not going to do it yet," said Matt firmly.

"You can't wait too long," said Josh. "It'll cheapen the message you want to send if you only do it after public opinion is overwhelmingly demanding it and you don't want to take the risk that he dies before you can act." Josh didn't always agree with the decisions his president made, but once Matt Santos made up his mind, Josh knew his job was to advise him on the best way to accomplish that agenda.

"I'm not going to pardon him until," Matt began, then hesitated. He cleared his throat and inelegantly motioned to Josh's oxygen tank, suddenly feeling very inarticulate. "Not until this is behind you."

"Sir?"

"If I let him out now, and, uh," Matt began, stumbling before clearing his throat and finding his words again. "If you don't make it through this, and the person responsible for it is free because of me, I'll never be able to look Donna or Sam in the eye again; hell, I'll never be able to look at myself in the mirror again. I know this is time sensitive, but he can wait until I know you're okay."

"Sir, I'm touched by your loyalty," Josh began carefully. On one hand, he was glad to know that the President was considering Donna; if he died, how much extra pain might it cause her to know LeRoy was home with his family? On the other hand though, he worried that the president would be ill-advised to anchor the decision in something that personal; if anyone ever found out about that being a factor, everything he hoped to accomplish with the pardon would be shot. "But I think that's a mistake-"

"I don't care," Matt cut him off. He knew that Josh probably had some well thought out reasoning, but he wasn't going to hear it. "Like you said, the people chose me and it's my decision."

* * *

A little over an hour later, after senior staff, Josh was glancing at his notes just outside the briefing room. Lou was concluding the general morning briefing, then he would take the podium. For now, he leaned against the wall nervously.

The sound of Donna's heels clicking on the floor caught his attention; he looked up and saw her hurriedly walking up to him.

"Thank God, I'm not too late," she said with a little smile when she reached him. "How are you doing? Are you gonna be okay in there?"

"Yeah," he said quickly.

"It's just that you know, you and the press room," Donna started, trailing off in a teasing voice. "Not always the place where you shine, you know?" She was relieved to see that she'd gotten a smile out of him.

"Hey, it's been a long time since the secret plan to fight inflation," he defended.

"That's the spirit," she teased. "I'm gonna go take a seat in the back, I'll see you out there." She gave him a comforting smile and went into the room. A few moments later, Lou's assistant gave Josh the nod to come to the podium.

"Ladies and gentlemen," Lou began. "White House Chief of Staff Joshua Lyman has a short statement; he'll take a few questions afterward. Thank you."

As Josh strode to the podium, the clicks and flashes of the press corps' cameras flooded his senses. Donna had been teasing him, but in truth, there was a part of him that really hated the briefing room; he didn't have the calm temperament of a press secretary and had on multiple occasions during the two administrations he served, made a fool of himself during press conferences. Now he felt so exposed and self-conscious as the reporters' eyes were trained on the conspicuous medical device he carried. He took a breath and adjusted the microphone.

"Good morning," he started softly, reading from a prompter, the words he, Lou and Sam had very carefully crafted. "Ten years ago, I was injured during the shooting in Rosslyn, Virginia. Some of the world's finest trauma surgeons at George Washington University Hospital operated on me for over fourteen hours and saved my life by repairing my pulmonary artery and re-expanding a collapsed lung. I was extremely lucky to have recovered."

He paused and cleared his throat again, before elaborating on what had happened to him in January, the need for a second surgery and what caused his episode in Wisconsin.

"On the recommendation of Dr. Paul Eisen of Johns Hopkins University Medical Center," he began, then cleared his throat. "I will undergo the procedure sooner than originally planned. I'm going to be admitted to the hospital a week from today, with surgery scheduled for the next morning. I am therefore, effective immediately, commencing a leave of absence my position as White House Chief of Staff."

"Josh!" "Josh!" "Josh!" "Josh!"

The room erupted in reporters trying to get a question in. Josh calmly raised a hand, commanding a return to respectful quiet so he could finish his statement as the cameras shuttered and flashed.

"I have recommended to the President," he continued. "That he appoint as acting Chief of Staff, my deputy, Sam Seaborn, who has extensive experience in the White House between the current and previous administration." He took a deep breath and glanced up at the prompter. "Thank you."

With that, hands flew into the air and his name was shouted from every direction again. He called on reporters one at a time and answered various questions about his health in a rapid fire fashion, occasionally not specifically enough for their liking. After it seemed like the most pressing medical questions had been addressed, he braced himself for what he knew would be next.

"In the back there, Nancy," he called out to a reporter who'd been waiting with her hand up for a while.

"Josh, since your current health problems stem from your injury at Rosslyn, how are you advising the President regarding the possibility of an executive pardon for Carl LeRoy?"

Josh cleared his throat. "The suggestion that my current health problems would in any way influence how I advise the President is insulting," he began firmly. "The White House Counsel's office is giving this case the same care and attention it gives all pardon petitions and it is policy not to comment on active petitions."

"But how do you personally, as a victim of the crime, feel about the idea of Carl LeRoy getting out of prison?"

"I'm not going to get into my personal opinion here," he said tersely, then called on another reporter.

"Have you and any of the other victims discussed it among yourselves?"

Josh bit his lower lip and considered his answer. "Yes," he said honestly. "I've spoken about to Charlie Young and former President Bartlet."

"What did you say?"

"These were private conversations between old friends," he shot back, not taking the reporter's effort to bait him into answering the previous question. "I'm not getting into that here."

"Josh, did you watch the interview last night?"

"No," he replied. "I've seen a clip, but I did not watch the interview. One last question, Mark?"

"During this interview, Carl LeRoy said he hoped to speak to you," began the reporter. "Do you have any intention to go see him?"

"Absolutely not."

* * *

When the press conference was completed, after Sam had his security briefing, Josh found himself alone in his office while the interns Margaret had organized were carrying boxes out to his car. He was hoping to slip out of the building without a lot of attention; a lot of the staff were eating lunch at that moment.

He stepped out to Margaret's desk area with an envelope. When she saw him, she stood up, attentively and reverently.

"Margaret, I have something I need you to hang onto for me," he said quietly, handing her the envelope. She took it and set it down on the desk. "That's for Sam," he said.

"I'll give it to him after lunch," said Margaret.

"No," Josh said abruptly. She looked at him, confused. "No, don't give it to him yet. It's for if, you know, if-"

"Oh," said Margaret, the realization dawning on her. "Ok."

She carefully placed it in the top drawer of her desk, then looked back up at Josh.

"Thank you Margaret," he said quietly.

"Josh-" she started, but strangely found herself without words. Instead, she hugged him. Josh smiled.

When the last of his things were loaded into the car, Josh walked out of the White House gates and took a look back at the building. Before he turned away from it, his eyes filled with tears. He pulled his sunglasses down and got into his car.

 **...quick additional note/question: when I was writing the scene with Santos and Josh in the Oval Office, I got really fascinated by this idea of how Matt Santos and his family, as a mayor of a major city and Congressional candidate would have experienced the aftermath of Rosslyn, how that would make him fear for his family's safety, how his wife would feel about him continuing to pursue higher office after the president had been shot, how he and his family dealt with that same kind of racism, etc. Do you think that would make an interesting (short) story? I'm thinking I may write that as like a one-shot. Would any of you like to read something like that? It would notably not really include any of the main characters (besides mentioning them) except for the Santos family. Thanks and thanks again as always for reading and reviewing!**


	12. Chapter 12

**Hi everyone! Thanks, as always for the wonderful review! I really appreciate, as well, the feedback on the Santos-Rosslyn story idea; I'm currently writing it! But I wanted very much to forge ahead with this story, and I've got a big chapter here. We're checking in with a few different characters over the course of a week and there's a big ordeal for Josh. You'll notice this chapter is quite a bit longer than usual; that's because I couldn't really find a logical place to break it up and maintain the format I wanted to use. Just in case there's any ambiguity, this first chunk, labelled "Friday" is like a flash-forward, so the next chunk after it takes place a few days before, then everything is just in order until it catches back up to the first scene (this is done on the West Wing itself to great effect pretty often, so here's my little hat-tip to that).**

 **Also, I think by now, the general tone of this story is fairly well established, so I'm not sure its necessary to keep including warnings like this, but just in case, this chapter has both some strong language and some pretty intense discussion of emotionally charged subjects.**

 _Friday_

The first thing Josh noticed as he walked up to the building was a palpable feeling of hopelessness in the very atmosphere of the place. Even from the visitors' parking lot, looking in almost any direction gave a view of barbed wire and concrete barriers. He glanced around somewhat nervously as he made his way toward the door, hoping there wouldn't be any press around for any reason.

When he reached the door, he almost turned around and left. But he couldn't quite decide to do that, so he stood just outside the door for a few moments, glancing down at his shoes, trying to decide if he'd made a horrible mistake by taking this drive.

As he hesitated, he noticed an exhausted looking young woman with a few cheap looking tattoos visible, wearing ripped and faded blue jeans and a tight tank top that made her advanced pregnancy very obvious; she was carrying a toddler on her hip, dragging boy of about four or five along by the hand. The little boy's clothes looked dirty and his face was red, as if he'd been crying recently.

Josh looked up at the woman as she walked up and he immediately felt compelled to open the door for her. She didn't say anything, but gave him a slight nod in acknowledgement as she and her kids went inside. Josh overheard her say something sternly to the boy about not crying in front of his father.

When they had gone into the building and Josh was still outside mulling over whether or not he still wanted to go through with this, he felt a little ashamed. There was no way, he thought, that whatever he was about to face could possibly be as frightening and difficult as that unfortunate family's everyday reality. So Josh straightened his shoulders and went inside.

The first stop was an officer at a desk behind thick glass.

"First and last name?"

"Joshua Lyman," Josh answered. "L-Y-M-A-N."

"Inmate number?" replied the officer, barely looking up from the computer.

"I don't know it," said Josh, a little relieved; maybe this would be his out. Since he hadn't managed to get this information, he would probably be turned away. Rules were rules afterall.

"Make sure you have it for next time," explained the officer in a dull tone. Josh internally cringed at even the suggestion that there could be a next time. "Makes it go a little quicker. But I can look it up; what's the inmate's name?"

Josh bit his lip in frustration; he wasn't saved after all. He took a deep breath.

"Carl LeRoy," he said very quietly.

The officer looked up at Josh, and suddenly a look of recognition dawned on his face. "Ah," he said as he continued typing. "Ok, got the number, and yes, it looks like you are on the list. I just need a photo ID."

Josh pulled out his driver's license and slid it under the divider. The officer entered some information from it into his computer, then returned it to Josh along with a visitor's badge.

"You display that at all times," he instructed. "Go through this door for security. Here is a list of items prohibited in the visitors' room; you can rent a locker for five dollars if you need to." He handed Josh the list and gestured to a wall of lockers.

"Thanks," he said, pinning the badge to his shirt. He turned and made his way through a set of double doors. The security station was intimidating; there were metal detectors, armed guards, and even an officer with a dog waiting in the corner.

"Phone and keys and any other metal in a bin," called out a large woman in uniform at the metal detector. She shoved a bin into Josh's had. "Then step through!" He wasn't entirely sure why she seemed to intent on hurrying him along as there wasn't a line. In any case, Josh knew it wasn't going to be simple; metal detectors had been a regular annoyance since Rosslyn, and the new addition of the oxygen tank would make things even more complicated. He walked through the detector and immediately set it off as he expected.

"I have surgical wiring in my sternum," he explained cooly, then motioned to the pack slung around his shoulder. "And this has some metal in it."

The guard studied him for a second. She didn't say anything else to him, but just called out loudly, "I need a pat-down! Male. Might be an ADA thing too."

Josh felt mortified.

"Step over here, sir," called out a male guard. Josh quietly stepped out of the main queue into a seperate section. "Feet shoulder-width apart, arms out," he instructed and put on rubber gloves.

Josh tensely complied as the guard started doing the pat-down. It was irritatingly thorough; Josh was fairly used to setting off metal detectors at airports and in various government buildings, but because of his security clearance and position, he was almost never subjected to any additional screening.

"Hey, I'm flattered, but very happily married," said Josh awkwardly as the guard patted down the area around his groin; the guard didn't seem to find it funny.

"I'm gonna need to check that pack," he said, in an all business tone. Josh unzipped the outer-case and handed it to him, relieved that the tubing to his cannula was long enough that he didn't have to take it off and risk getting short of breath in this already uncomfortable situation.

Once the guard was satisfied that his portable oxygen pack wasn't actually a stash of drugs or weapons, Josh was ushered through to the next set of doors into a waiting room. He sat down on a hard plastic chair and stared at the ceiling until they called his name.

"Joshua Lyman," called an officer, appearing in another door. Josh stood up and met him. "This way." He followed him down a long hallway, through two sets of locked barred doors. Josh felt his stomach twist into knots walking through the space; he almost had to remind himself a few times that he was free to leave whenever he felt like it, and not being taken to a cell himself. At the end of the hallway was one more locked door; the guard opened it and Josh saw a long row of visitor stations, separated from the prisoner side by glass. He'd seen rooms like this while doing some pro-bono work at a state prison during law school, but that was almost twenty-five years ago; now, this sight was foreign and unnerving.

"All the way on the end," instructed the guard. "When you're ready to leave, just come back here; someone will escort you back."

"Thank you," said Josh. He walked all the way down, giving as much of a respectful distance between himself and the other visitors as the space would allow. When he got to the end, he realized, without a doubt that this was truly the point of no return; he was committed now.

Sitting down, he quickly and aggressively picked up the phone, ready to unleash a vitriolic tirade at Carl LeRoy now that he was face to face with him. But he hesitated for just a second, as if distracted by the surreal quality of this strange meeting.

"You came," said LeRoy in a small, breathless voice.

* * *

 _Tuesday_

Sam felt deeply uncomfortable working in Josh's office.

Four years ago, it had been a strange feeling to move into the Deputy Chief of Staff's office, but by that point, Josh had been out of the White House for nearly a year, so it felt less like an invasion. But now, here in the second grandest office in the West Wing, the one that had once belonged to Leo McGarry, Sam really felt like an imposter.

The first day had gone alright, and today was off to a decent start; he had managed to stay on top of the briefing materials and thanks to Margaret's airtight running of the office, he was ahead of his meeting schedule.

Over his short lunch, Sam had found himself down something of a YouTube rabbit-hole on his smart-phone; it was mostly confined to major news clips from the past few days. But the last one he watched had stayed with him. It was the clip President Santos had teased him about, where Ainsley Hayes was zealously defending his ability to do the job. He hadn't been entirely sure it was a good idea to seek it out, but once it occurred to him to do so, he couldn't stop himself.

" _Sam Seaborn is a man of incredible talent and integrity."_

She was more flustered giving that response than she seemed to be the entire rest of the interview, even when Brett Thorson and Flynn Earnshaw were overtly ridiculing or criticizing her. Sam was rather touched; they kept in contact a bit, but it had been a little while he'd spoken to Ainsley. That afternoon, he started wondering if it might be worth giving her a call.

Then he quickly decided it would be weird to call her.

Instead, he started to write an email to her. Email, he decided, was less intrusive than a phone call, less noteworthy. He pulled up her address from his contacts and started to compose:

 _Hey Ainsley,_

 _Just saw that clip of you on Brett Thorson from over the weekend. You were sweet to say that about me. Hope all is well :-)_

 _Thanks,_

 _Sam_

Almost immediately, he hated it. Firstly, it was so short and dull that it sounded terse; his long friendship with Ainsley warranted a bit more warmth than that. Secondly, what was he thinking, a man in his forties sending an email to a woman with a ridiculous emoticon smiley face? Lastly and most importantly, it was terrible writing, the greatest shame possible to Sam Seaborn. Mortified, he deleted the whole thing and closed his laptop.

About an hour later, when he found himself with a very small bit of downtime after a meeting, he had his email opened up again. By now, he was a little annoyed with himself for continuing to think about it, but he strangely couldn't help it. So he tried again:

 _Hey Ainsley,_

 _I thought you were great on Hot Seat the other day. You were almost as good as that time you kicked my ass on Capitol Beat. The President's speech in Wisconsin absolutely did not oversimplify his environmental agenda, by the way, but we can get into that some other time. Thanks for sticking up for me like that. I hope things are going well with you; let's grab a drink next time you're in DC._

 _-Sam_

He liked that a little bit better, but he still couldn't quite send it off like that. Suddenly, he decided he didn't want to make a big thing of thanking her for standing up for him; he wasn't sure why, but the idea felt somewhat emasculating. He made another adjustment:

 _Hi Ainsley,_

 _I thought you were great on Hot Seat the other day, almost as good as that time you kicked my ass on Capitol Beat._

 _The President did not oversimplify his environmental agenda by the way, but we can get into that some other time. Maybe over drinks next time you're in DC? It'd be nice to catch up some time._

 _Anyway, I really wanted to thank you for pushing back on the way they were ripping into Josh. I'm worried about him and it's hard to watch people talk about him like that. I know you probably don't get points with your readership for sticking up for Josh or any of us, but I'm glad you did. I'm not sure if he's seen it, but if he did, I think he'd say the same thing._

 _Thanks,_

 _Sam_

Finally content, he sent it off.

* * *

After Huck and Molly had finished eating dinner, Toby dialed Andy. He wanted to talk to her a bit, then he would hand the phone off to the kids.

"Hi Toby," she answered, seeing his name on the caller ID.

"Hey Andy," he said quietly.

"How are they today?" she asked eagerly. She'd been missing them badly. "I can't wait to see them on Saturday."

"They're good," Toby explained. "It was raining and kind of cold most of the day, so we just stayed in, but they're good."

"Can I talk to them?" she asked eagerly.

"Yeah, but first, I had something I needed to talk to you about," said Toby.

"What's up?"

Toby took a deep breath. "I'm thinking of driving down a little early. Would that be ok? I can stay with them if you've got campaign things; I know you weren't planning on having them home until the weekend, but I'm thinking maybe it'd be a good idea."

"Why, what's wrong?" Andy asked. "Are they homesick? Do they miss me? Did Molly have more trouble sleeping? What's going on?"

Toby almost regretted it now. "It's not a big deal," he started.

"I mean, yeah of course you can bring them back early," said Andy. "I'm dying to see them, I'd be so happy if you did, but what's going on?"

"I just-"

"God damn it, Toby," she cut him off. "Don't you dare tell me some crap about not knowing what else to do with them! You got sick of your own children after less than two weeks? What the hell is the matter with you?!"

"Andy!" Toby snapped. That accusation was painful; Toby had worked hard to become a better, more involved father after missing out on a lot during their toddler years while he was still in the White House.

"I'm sorry Toby," Andy replied, contrite. She knew she needed to work harder on not assuming the worst of Toby; he loved those kids, she knew that.

"I kind of had it out with Josh," he admitted.

"In a bad way?" Andy asked.

"I called him when he was in the hospital last week and told him I think he ought to resign," Toby explained.

"Oh Jesus, Toby," said Andy.

"Yeah, I know," said Toby.

"Call him," she said.

"I don't know how," said Toby, honestly and vulnerably. "I think maybe I just need to talk to him face to face."

"Might be a good idea," Andy agreed. "So when were you thinking?"

"Maybe Thursday?" said Toby. "We have one more full day here, then leave Thursday morning. If you don't mind, maybe I would stay for a few days."

"I saw he's having his procedure on Tuesday," said Andy. "Maybe stay at least through then?"

"You wouldn't mind that?" Toby asked.

"No, I think maybe this is where you need to be," she said. "And any time with the kids is good, whether it's there or here. I don't think they care so much about being in New York as much as they care about being with you. I think you should call Josh though."

"He probably wouldn't answer."

"Give him a chance," said Andy.

Toby said nothing. He didn't want to admit this to Andy, but there was still a little part of him that hoped Josh would call him instead; he still wasn't entirely convinced that he'd been wrong to tell Josh to resign.

"I'll probably call Donna," he said finally. "Anyway, I'm sure the kids wanna talk to you; let me get them."

"Oh yes, please do!" said Andy, realizing it wasn't worth prodding him more.

"Huck, Molly!" Toby called. "Come talk to Mom!" The two kids came scurrying into the living room. Toby hit the button to turn on the speaker phone.

* * *

 _Wednesday_

It was driving Josh insane to be home all day, especially without Donna. He tried to take Shea for a walk, but got worn out and breathless quickly, so he returned home in an even fouler mood than he was in before.

Donna was still going to work everyday. She would take FMLA time starting Monday, but for now, she was still going in to the East Wing.

As the afternoon and early evening wore on, Josh was more and more restless; he had gotten the idea that he might cook dinner for Donna when she came home, but his skill in the kitchen left a lot to be desired. As he scraped a burned sauce from a now completely ruined pan into the trash can while struggling to breath in the now smoke-filled kitchen, he decided not to try again. When he caught his breath, he walked over to the counter and started leafing through a pile of takeout menus that were tucked behind the bread box.

Josh found the one he thought he would go with; it was an Italian place Donna liked. It didn't deliver, giving him an excuse to leave the house. He dialed it up and placed the order, then looked over at Shea, who had watched sadly as even ruined food was thrown into the garbage instead of her dish.

"Go for a car ride, girl?" he said to her. She started wagging her tail and jumping up and down. He clipped the leash onto her collar and brought her out to the car. Perhaps sensing after their truncated walk earlier that Josh was weaker than usual, she walked beside him obediently and got into the car without lunging towards any squirrels or birds like she normally would have done.

Josh adored Shea. Two years ago, Donna had a very hard time convincing him to agree to getting a dog; he insisted they didn't have time to take care of one. But she worked on him for a few months, and when she showed him Shea's picture on a rescue website, he found he couldn't say no. Very early on, she charmed him immensely by waiting up for him every night, even when he routinely didn't get home until well after midnight.

In a strange way, Shea was the first thing in his life that had ever really made Josh Lyman feel paternal and it amazed him how much and how easily he came to like that part of himself; suddenly the ambivalence about fatherhood he felt for most of his adult life was gone. When he and Donna had their first serious conversation about becoming parents, he was eager and enthusiastic. He suspected, as silly as it might be, that the dog was partly responsible for that and he loved her for it. On occasion, he would wistfully imagine a kid, or maybe even two kids, playing with her in the backyard. More recently, as he and Donna learned to live with the sadness and uncertainty of infertility, it eased the pain just a little bit to have her, someone to love and take care of, who depended on them for everything.

As Josh drove to the restaurant, he turned on the radio.

"...now we have a surprising statement from Governor Ray Sullivan about the possibility of a presidential pardon for former West Virginia White Pride member Carl LeRoy," said an analyst on NPR. Josh bit his lip.

"It's really important to note that Sullivan was not yet governor at the time of the Rosslyn shootings," chimed in a guest commentator. "But as the state Attorney General at the time, he was criticized by some for what was seen as a weak stance on hate crimes. He had this reputation for being the quintessential tough-on-crime AG, but then when organized white supremacists from his own state carried out this terrible attack, his record in this area was scrutinized a bit. His Democratic challenger in his first gubernatorial race shortly after that shooting hit him hard on it."

"Today we have the governor, in an appearance at the Appalachian Family Society, a conservative Christian organization based in his home state, possibly taking a little bit of a risk with his base by saying he does not think President Santos should consider pardoning Carl LeRoy. We have this guy who has really kind of endeared himself to Evangelical Christians and recently garnered a lot of sympathy from an even broader base with his story, but Sullivan is sticking to that tough-on-crime stance. It may win him some swing voters who were worried about his record on hate crimes."

Josh cringed a little. Suddenly, the pardon issue was overtly in play with the campaign.

"Son of a bitch," he muttered under his breath. This move from the Republican presumptive nominee was planned and executed flawlessly, he thought bitterly. Sullivan's biggest political liability going into the general election was the perception that he pandered too much to Evangelicals; his biggest asset, especially with swing voters, was his record as a prosecutor. Reframing this as a "tough-on-crime" issue, while not engaging with the religiously loaded nature of it was perfect strategy. Most importantly, with a sitting president–the only person with the power to actually act on the matter right now–for an opponent, he had far less to lose by taking a stand on this, and doing so would put the Santos campaign and the White House in an uncomfortable position. In some parallel universe where he was a Republican, Josh would have advised the governor to do exactly this.

His mind started racing through all the possible ways the White House and the campaign ought to respond. Then, he remembered that there was nothing he could do about it; right now, he didn't currently work for the White House or the campaign. He was so anxious and angry about that, that he didn't notice that he'd run a red light until he suddenly realized he was about to crash into a minivan in a busy intersection.

Josh slammed on the breaks and brought his car to a screeching halt inches from the other car. He was treated to a long honk and a middle finger from the other driver; he knew it was entirely his fault, so he averted his face in shame and raised a hand in vague apology. He then looked in the backseat at Shea; in the motion, she'd been thrown forward off the seat, landing with a thud and a whine.

"I'm sorry baby," he whispered to the dog, giving her a little pet. She gingerly climbed back up onto the seat and he was immensely relieved that she didn't seem hurt. He turned the radio off and kept going, feeling absolutely mortified.

* * *

When Sam checked his personal email near the end of the day, he was amazed to see that Ainsley had almost immediately replied to him. Feeling a little self-conscious, he hesitated a bit before opening it.

 _Sam!_

 _If you and I were on Capitol Beat together again right now, I would (gently) remind you that Wisconsin gets more than half of its energy from coal and that vague promises about "green infrastructure" aren't of much use to entire communities faced with the loss of their livelihoods if these regulations take effect. But as you rightly point out, we can get into that some other time. As it happens, I'm in DC next week. I'm not sure what your schedule is like, but I'm glad to get that drink if it works out. I'm praying for Josh, by the way; please give him my best, Donna too. It was really nice to hear from you; let's talk soon!_

 _-Ainsley_

He leaned back in his chair, happily rereading the email and beginning to craft a cheeky counterpoint to her critique of the energy regulations. Sam found himself enormously glad that she'd agreed in principle to meet him when she was in town, though he wondered if it would actually be possible to do so next week. He was already putting in even longer hours than usual, and he imagined that he would try to spend much of the little bits of free time he did have at the hospital with Josh, especially during the first few days in ICU after surgery.

Suddenly, his focus was seized back to the office around him, when his desk phone rang. Margaret would have screened out any call he himself shouldn't take, so he answered it.

"Sam Seaborn," he said.

"Hey Sam, we need you down here in the situation room," said Dr. McNally on the other line. "Nothing too major now, but something might be unfolding in Kazakhstan."

"Should I get the President?" he asked. "He's having dinner in the Residence."

"We probably won't need to yet," said Nancy. "We'll brief him shortly, but for now, I want you in on this. If anything changes, I'll have you send for him."

"I'll be right there," Sam replied, very calmly and resolutely. He closed his laptop and went out the door.

* * *

 _Thursday_

It worried Donna just a little bit that Josh was still sleeping soundly by the time she was ready to leave for work. That was so unlike him. He'd also been restless through the night, tossing and turning, and even mumbling incoherently in his sleep. She almost felt a little guilty about leaving him, but she reminded herself that, despite all appearances to the contrary, he was at least partly able to look after himself. She kissed his forehead and made sure both the cordless home phone and his cell were on the nightstand; she would most certainly be calling him in about an hour to remind him to take his pills and check his blood pressure.

Arriving in her East Wing Office, she scanned through the day's briefing, including the schedules of both the president and first lady. Apparently, there had been an incident in Kazakhstan yesterday; the details weren't immediately available, but according to the press office and a Pentagon spokesperson, discretion and restraint from a commanding officer in the field de-escalated a tense situation that might have had terrible consequences. The story, while not a great shift in the ongoing saga of the situation in Kazakhstan, was noteworthy enough that it might shift the day's news coverage, especially of the campaign, onto foreign affairs.

Channeling Josh a little bit, a cynical part of Donna suspected that might be a good thing; President Santos had, so far exceeded expectations with his handling of the crisis in Central Asia he inherited on taking office. Between his own military experience and bipartisan State Department, what was expected to be, at best, a prolonged and open ended commitment that may last a decade or more, was winding down, with a target date for total withdrawal of US troops by the end of that year. Conversely, Ray Sullivan had no experience with foreign policy or the military, and had famously during a primary debate, failed to correctly recall the name of the President of China.

On a personal level, she liked the idea that pundits might find something else to talk about besides Josh and how everyone felt so damn sorry for the man who'd almost killed him. She knew thoroughly there was something ugly about feeling good in any capacity in response to something like this, especially when she didn't know all the facts or how bad it might have been, but since she would never actually articulate these feelings aloud, she didn't beat herself up over it too much.

During her morning meeting with her staff, Donna focused on the office's goals for the next couple of weeks that she would be out with Josh. Mrs. Santos had a small staff, so Donna didn't have a formal deputy. But within the coming weeks, Helen would be traveling the country on what they all somewhat jokingly called the commencement circuit. Graduation season was typically full of events for the first lady; in the next week alone, she would give speeches at UCLA, Brown and The University of Texas.

"Then over this weekend," Annabeth mused, looking at the schedule. "We've got the Catholic Women's Organization Mother's Day brunch on Sunday, and then next Thursday is the Gaza Memorial event in the morning; she's going to have to leave absolutely on time from Arlington to get to Andrews by noon for the flight to Austin."

Donna bit her lip discreetly. Both of those dates were something harsh and painful to her, but this wasn't the place of the company to talk about that.

"Advance will handle that," said Donna. "For Arlington, she needs to be with the president for the wreath-laying and his speech, but if he lingers to take questions or work a rope line, she'll still be able to leave on time. Where are we on the remarks for the Mother's Day brunch?"

"I was a little worried about that," said Annabeth tentatively.

"Why?" Donna asked.

"I was sent the finalized guest list yesterday afternoon, and it looks like instead of Edie Swinton, they're having Governor DeLaCroix as the other speaker," she explained.

"You're kidding," Donna groaned. The recently elected governor of Louisiana was outspokenly Catholic and staunchly pro-life; she had, on numerous occasions directly and harshly criticized the president and first lady for holding liberal views on social issues like abortion and gay marriage that conflicted with the Church's teachings when they themselves were devout Catholics.

"I reached out to Catholic Women's Organization and they insisted the event is apolitical," said Annabeth. She reached into her folder. "Then I sent an email to the governor's press secretary and he was kind enough to send me an outline of her remarks. To be delivered before the first lady speaks of course." She handed Donna a copy. It was obvious now what was happening; the press secretary's giving them notes on the speech was a form of taunting, a way to bait Helen into a cheap abortion debate in front of a very unfriendly audience and raise the governor's profile.

Donna scanned the page and struggled to keep her anger in check. One of the already written lines burned into her. She took a deep breath and read it aloud.

"She's going to say, 'and friends, let us remember our childless sisters, who pray each day for the precious gift that we allow other women to kill and throw away on a whim in this country'," Donna read from the page, then folded it in half at a crease so sharp, the motion was almost violent. "Cancel. We aren't doing this."

"Cancel?" asked one of the staff aides who had been furiously taking notes.

"Yes," said Donna. "The First Lady of the United States isn't going to be lectured like this, and she certainly isn't going to attend an event that tolerates a major speaker exploiting infertility to demonize women who've had abortions!"

Donna didn't realize quite how much she'd raised her voice until she read the look on Annabeth's face.

She cleared her throat tensely, trying to gain control over the anger she was feeling.

"I quite agree, Donna," said Helen Santos quietly, striding into the office. Donna's eyes shot wide open and she quickly sprang to her feet, followed immediately by the rest of the staff.

"I'm sorry ma'am," Donna said quickly, flustered.

"Nothing to be sorry about," said Helen with a soft smile. She turned the rest of the staff. "Can we have the room for a few?"

Everyone immediately filed out with a chorus of "yes ma'am" and then Donna and Helen were alone. Donna felt embarrassed.

"Ma'am," she began. Helen put up a hand.

"Donna, seriously," she said. "I heard what you read from that outline. I'm not sharing an event with her. We'll come up with some reason to cancel. Let's go to one of the DC women's shelters instead."

"I'll have Annabeth take care of it," said Donna, trying to compose herself.

Helen took a deep breath. "Donna, not a lot of people know this," she began. "But there was a reason Matt and I were married almost eight years before Peter came along."

Donna looked up at her. She was mortified but she felt the heat of fresh tears rising behind her eyes.

"Women don't talk about it," said Helen. "And that's a shame. I think it might have been a little easier to go through if it was something that could be talked about. Instead, I just smiled politely and gave stock non-answers to all the rude questions that made me want to cry every time. I listened quietly, like I had something to be ashamed of, when our old priest went on this mean-spirited tangent about IVF one Sunday during Matt's mayoral campaign, and afterward I convinced myself it was just the hormones that made me feel like garbage. And all along, I never talked about it. And no one ever talked to me about it."

Donna took a deep breath, then just released the flood gate. "It was supposed to just happen," she said, choking back a sob. "We had the talk and I stopped the pills, and we, like a pair of fucking idiots, painted the little extra bedroom in this stupid light yellow color that I thought was so cute. Then half a year passed with nothing." Donna was completely crying now.

"We went to a doctor and then another doctor," she continued. "And then some more months went by and we started to fight about it. My mom said something snide about it because she doesn't like Josh, and then we got into this awful phase where we'd turned sex into a chore, and we fought some more. And then," she paused and took a deep, sniffling, uncomfortable breath. "And then, all this happened!"

Helen pulled Donna into an embrace.

"The worst thing is," she said, quietly, after a pause. "I did get pregnant."

"Oh Donna," said Helen, stroking her back gently.

"I got pregnant," she said. "And we were so happy. And then we lost it. At five weeks; we knew for about three. We knew better than to be as happy as we were. I wouldn't let Josh and his crazy superstitious, not tempting fate, thing rub off on me; I should have. Instead I think I pushed him into letting himself be more excited than he would have, so I just kind of set him up to get hurt worse when it didn't work out."

"I'm so sorry," said Helen. Donna took a deep breath, trying to get control of herself; she didn't feel embarrassed though. Learning that the first lady had some understanding of what this felt like was actually an enormous comfort.

"Now, I don't know what's going to happen," said Donna. "You know, he's got this frozen sample at the clinic we go to. God, I probably shouldn't even be telling you this, but I just, I…"

"It's ok," said Helen.

"Men's fertility goes down with age," Donna explained. "That's another something nobody talks about. I'm thirty-seven, which is apparently a hundred and four in getting pregnant years, but in his late forties, his, well, his stuff, I guess, both quality and quantity, is dropping off constantly, so this new doctor had him give a sample right away to freeze, so that if we get further down the line and have to look at IVF or something, they can use the youngest, healthiest sperm for it."

"Donna…" Helen sensed where this was going and felt it was none of her business, but at the same time, she didn't want Donna to feel she couldn't talk to her.

"He told me he wants it to be destroyed if he doesn't make it," said Donna sharply and soberly. "He thinks he's being gallant about that, that if I've still got that and he's gone, that'll get in the way of me making a life with someone else, and he doesn't want me to feel beholden to him like that or to have to decide on my own whether or not to get rid of it later. I don't think I see it that way at all, but if it comes to it, I'm going to do what he wants; I think it'd be wrong not to honor his wishes about something like that. It's just semen, not embryos or anything, but it's a piece of him, a piece that exists for making the family we wanted. And as much as I tell myself it's going to be fine and remind myself how good his surgeons are, there's still this chance that I'm going to find myself without him, and on top of that, also having to sign a paper giving permission to get rid of that piece of him. And if I think about that too much, I feel like I want to throw up. So this morning, when I read that Governor 'Every-Sperm-is-Sacred' was going to get up there at your brunch and say those things, I just lost it."

"I'm glad they sent us the outline," said the first lady. "Because if I'd just gone there and heard that speech, I probably would have lost it right there. We would've had to do some damage control." She smiled softly and Donna returned the smile; they understood each other a little more now, and felt closer for it.

* * *

Josh was reading a newspaper on the couch in the afternoon. He had slept until almost ten, and his body was so unaccustomed to that, that he felt exhausted the whole day. He hated it and found himself thinking resentfully about Toby; this is what daily life would be like if he quit and it was miserable. What the hell kind of friend would suggest that to him?

Josh's mood had been getting worse over the past few days. He felt anxious and irritable. In his boredom, he found he could only think about awful things. All week, the news media was fixated with Carl Leroy; in that morning's paper, there had been an op-ed that criticized Josh for so brusquely declaring he wouldn't consider meeting with him. Looking to the future didn't help, because the thing he'd been dreading for months was going to happen in just five days now. Thinking too much about after the surgery suddenly felt like tempting fate.

And to complete his constellation of bad feelings, a little part of his mind was hyper aware that this was the exact time of year, maybe even down to the day in early May, that five years ago, he pulled some strings to get his assistant onto a Codel trip to the Middle East. He thought he was doing her such a grand favor at the time. How could he have been so selfish and so stupid? He sent Donna into harm's way and she was badly hurt because of him. When she came back, things had changed between them, and he was certain it entirely was his fault. Even now, he sometimes felt it was remarkable that they ever even became friends again, much less had any hope of having an intimate relationship, after what he'd done.

The landline phone rang and he glanced at the caller ID. "Rachel Lyman" it said. Feeling extraordinarily guilty about it, he let it go to voicemail. He had very briefly talked to his mother when he got out of the hospital, but he purposefully waited until they were at the airport to call her so that he had a built in excuse to rush her off the phone. And every day since then, he'd dodged her calls. Donna spoke to Rachel a few times and sorted out all the details about her flight on Friday. Josh suspected she'd be mad at him, but he still couldn't bring himself to talk to her.

When the phone stopped ringing, Josh studied the opinion page of the paper he'd just read. At the top were two close-up photos of men with oxygen cannulas, one of him from his press conference and one of LeRoy from the interview. He hated seeing that; highlighting the fact that they both had something wrong with their lungs seemed to cheap to Josh. He had nothing in common with Carl LeRoy. Josh nearly lost his life because his distinguished career in public service once had him in the wrong place at the wrong time; Carl LeRoy had thrown his life away because he loathed a stranger who upset his twisted and hateful worldview enough to plan and execute an act of terrorism. The comparison offended Josh to the pit of his soul.

Somewhere else in the paper had been an interview with Stephanie Abbott, the woman who'd been shot in the leg, but had come out in favor of a pardon. Josh didn't really know her; they'd met just once at the sentencing hearing. He thought about her occasionally though, how she was the only person who'd been injured that wasn't there doing the job they loved. She was just a young woman excited to see the president and it seemed quite unfair that she'd gotten hurt. In the newspaper article, Josh read that she still walked with a cane and sometimes had a hard time keeping up with her young children. She had once been an enthusiastic marathon runner before the shooting, he read, but she never regained enough strength and stability in the leg to run again.

Josh wondered how the hell she could feel the way she did. According to the article, she wasn't particularly religious, so that wasn't it. Then he saw that she chose to go see him after he wrote to her. She met him shortly after his cancer diagnosis, unsure what to expect.

" _It was like I finally got some peace after all this time," says Abbott. "When I was able to look him in the eye and confront him for all the ways he changed my life for the worse and all the things I lost out on because of him, and then just see that he wasn't some amoral monster, but a person who was responsible for doing that awful thing and now finally capable of feeling remorse about it, I could start to let go. I didn't forgive him for his sake; I did it for mine."_

Josh folded up the paper and stared up at the ceiling.

* * *

 _Friday_

It wasn't unusual for Toby to stay in the guest bedroom at Andy's house in her district. Some people thought it odd, but they didn't care; the arrangement was good for the kids and that was really the most important thing to both of them. That day, Andy was attending a long strategy meeting for her Senate campaign, so Toby gladly stayed with Huck and Molly.

In the early afternoon, while the kids were watching a movie in the living room, Toby had finally made his mind up to call Josh. He decided he would just swallow his own pride and be the one to reach out and he had a very simple plan for how to go about it. He would call him, calmly apologize for his tone their previous conversation, listen patiently if Josh was still mad and wanted to rail at him for a while, then hopefully the ground of the conversation would soften up enough to suggest meeting for a beer. He wanted to see him.

He wondered briefly if Josh could even have a beer; he might be on some miserable combination of medications that couldn't be taken with alcohol. Perhaps he wouldn't specifically mention beer; he'd just suggest an early dinner, sometime after Andy got back.

At this point, Toby absolutely knew he'd entirely overthought the whole thing and reached for his phone. But to his supreme annoyance, he noticed that he had less than 1% battery life left. If the conversation went well, it might outlast the juice on the phone, he thought. But he didn't want to wait for the phone to charge; that would give him a chance to change his mind. So, using the last bit of power on the phone, he pulled up Josh's cell number and wrote it down. Then he dialed it from Andy's landline phone.

It rang a few times, then went to voicemail.

"Shit," Toby muttered to himself, then hung up without leaving a message.

* * *

Rachel was very distressed as she made a last check of the dimensions of her carry-on bag. Her friend Suzanne was going to drive her to the airport after they had an early lunch out. The past week had been hell for her; Donna filled her in on how sick Josh was, but he bafflingly refused to speak to her. She'd tried to call him every single day, but he never answered. She didn't suppose he had any reason to be angry with her, but that possibility wasn't necessarily what troubled her.

What was most likely, she thought, was that he was trying to hide from her how afraid he was. Rachel hated the thought that he should feel that way. Josh was a forty-eight year old man, so maybe it was silly to think like this, but she didn't care. She was a mother whose little boy was in distress and it killed her not only that she couldn't protect him, but that he would shut her out from even being able to try.

Suzanne was very kind and reassuring with Rachel. She had thoughtfully checked in on her throughout the past week and tried to help keep her busy with an afternoon at the mall here, or a beach walk there. As they had their lunch that Friday before going to the airport, Suzanne had deftly kept the conversation light.

When they'd finished eating, Rachel checked her watch; she was still very early for her flight to Washington. Suzanne could tell she was still feeling anxious.

"What do you think, another glass of Chardonnay now or a Valium on the plane?" she asked, light heartedly. Rachel smiled.

"Why not both?" she replied. After a second or two, the smile melted off her face and her expression turned serious again. Suzanne picked up on that.

"You'll feel so much better when you see him," she said gently. "You'll get off that plane and throw your arms around him and you'll feel so much better, I promise."

Rachel nodded soberly.

"Then, you should smack him upside the head for making you worry like that!" she continued. "In fact, please give him an extra slap just for me! Tell him I say he's a putz who ought to be ashamed of himself to do that to his mother!"

Rachel laughed.

"That's a correct use of 'putz', right?" Suzanne added with a laugh.

"It is indeed," Rachel replied. "And trust me, I have every intention of breaking out the Yiddish when I see him; that was always how they knew they were in trouble when they were kids." _They_ , she'd said; her two kids, including the daughter who never got to be an adult. That detail wasn't lost on her friend.

Now Suzanne's expression got serious again. "Rachel," she started after a brief pause. "You have to talk to him."

Rachel didn't answer; she glanced down at a dessert menu and avoided Suzanne's gaze.

"What you told me the other day," she tried again. "Those are things he needs to hear from you. It won't be easy, but if you have that conversation, you might really give him some peace and he needs that now. You might find some for yourself too, after all this time."

"I know," Rachel whispered. "I just don't know if I can."

"You can," said Suzanne. "And you have to."

* * *

Josh gripped the phone firmly, but found that his words continued to fail him. He had practiced a speech during the long drive over. He'd been running through it obsessively in his head from the moment he so abruptly made up his mind to come here.

"I'm so glad you did," said LeRoy after a silence. His voice, through the phone sounded weaker than it had in the clips from the interview. Josh took a second to really take in the sight of him. He noticed, almost immediately, that the swastika tattoo on his right hand was still visible, though it looked like he tried to pull the long sleeve of his white undershirt as far up his hand as possible, perhaps in an effort to hide it.

"I'm not entirely sure why I did," said Josh at long last. He took a deep breath and adjusted the phone a little bit. "I'm certain I'd be so much happier if I could just carry on as if you didn't exist."

LeRoy glanced downward at the table, as if averting his eyes in shame.

"Over the last ten years," Josh continued, recalling little bits of what he'd practiced. "I've felt a range of different things about you, rage, hatred, disgust, resentment. But the best I ever managed, the one that gave the most peace of mind, was indifference. I'm usually pretty okay when I'm engaged enough in the very full life I've been living to not think so much about Rosslyn, about you. Indifference is good. But suddenly, you're all over the news and my boss has to decide what to do about you, so unfortunately for me, indifference is off the table now. And I gotta tell you, man, your timing couldn't possibly have been worse."

"I'm sorry about that," said LeRoy.

"About _that_?" Josh scoffed, laughing a little. This was a mistake; he was sure of that now.

Carl LeRoy realized right away the absurdity of what he'd just said. He gave a weak, embarrassed laugh. "That, and a few other things I suppose," he said. It caught Josh a little off guard.

"I almost died," said Josh plainly and dispassionately.

"I know," said LeRoy, now looking him in the eye.

"I know you know," said Josh harshly. "The last time I saw you, you articulated your disappointment that I didn't."

"I thank God every single day that you lived," LeRoy replied. Josh let out a disgusted sigh.

"Don't give me that," he snapped. "I didn't drive two and a half hours for you to bullshit me like that."

"It's the truth," LeRoy insisted, somewhat forcefully. He leaned closer to the glass and clenched his phone tightly. "Josh-"

"I'm the White House Chief of Staff," Josh snapped, cutting him off. "You don't call me by my first name!"

LeRoy took a ragged breath, then nodded deferentially. "Mr. Lyman," he began again. "It's not bullshit that I thank God you lived. You saved me by surviving."

"What the hell does that even mean?" Josh asked bitterly. "You're still in jail for the rest of your life; how would you have been any worse off if I'd died?"

"The US Attorney came down on me as hard as he could," said LeRoy. "But the only thing that kept them from being able to fry my ass was the fact that no one died."

"That's technically not-" Josh started, but then backed off; it probably wasn't entirely necessary or helpful to launch into an explanation of the complexities of federal capital punishment law. LeRoy wasn't entirely wrong either. As serious as the crime was, even considering that the president was injured, it would have been very unlikely for any court to impose the death penalty when there were no actual homicides committed.

"With everything else we did," said LeRoy. "If you hadn't made it, I would have gotten the death sentence. And I would have deserved it. As it happens, I'm dying anyway, so maybe it seems to you like that doesn't matter. But God's timing is everything. You lived, and so I lived long enough to finally hear Him. That was only about two years ago, Mr. Lyman. If you'd died, I probably would have been executed before I got saved. A lot of guys in here think this is hell, but I can stand it ok, because I know I would be in the real thing right now if you had died. So don't you dare think for a second that I'm lying to you when I say that I thank God everyday that you lived."

Josh was quiet as he took that in. He hadn't spent much time thinking about what would have happened to LeRoy if he hadn't survived, but now he was suddenly picturing it. Particularly, he thought of his mother, in this version of events completely alone with her husband and both of her children dead, going through the painful process of complicated appellate proceedings over the course of several years. He thought of President Bartlet, who hated capital punishment, but loved him and might have been tempted by the idea of state sanctioned revenge.

"My mother wouldn't have wanted to see you executed," he said very quietly. "They might have listened to her."

"She might have been just fine with it if her kid had died," said LeRoy. Josh tensed up immediately.

"Don't speculate about my mother and what she would or wouldn't have felt," Josh snapped. "You don't know her or what she's lived through and you have no business assuming anything about her. She has more kindness and humanity on her worst day than you'll ever have in your life."

"I'm sorry," said LeRoy quickly. This wasn't going very well. Josh peered at his hand and focused his gaze on the tattoo.

"I see you're still sporting your Nazi ink," said Josh with palpable contempt in his voice.

"They don't exactly have a laser removal clinic here," said LeRoy, self-consciously pulling and stretching his sleeve down to cover more of his hand. "I'm so ashamed of it. Whenever I look at it, I'm reminded of what I used to be."

"I might be showing my age a little, but I never got the appeal of tattoos," said Josh in a thoughtful tone than left his point a little ambiguous before he elaborated. "I know more and more people have them these days; it's not just for overt racist thug shit anymore. I don't get it, but other people like them I suppose."

LeRoy nervously tapped his fingers on the phone in his grip.

"Growing up, the only person I ever knew who had one," Josh began. "Was my grandfather."

"Your grandfather?" said LeRoy quietly, clearly putting the pieces together and bracing himself for the well deserved shaming he was about to get.

"Faded little numbers on his forearm," said Josh. "One of the many things they did to erase his humanity. I asked him about it one time when I was a dumb kid who didn't know anything. He didn't so much get mad at me as totally shut down and refuse to speak to any of us for the rest of the day. My mom got really pissed at me but didn't say why; my older sister had to fill me in."

LeRoy said nothing; his head was low.

"You know," said Josh. "I understand PTSD now. I never did while he was alive. No one ever called it by its name with him; he was just a moody old man. I regret that he'd been gone almost twenty years before I really started to understand a fraction of what it felt like to live with pain like that. I didn't go through anything nearly as bad as he did, but I know now what it's like to always have to worry that something mundane is going to completely throw you back into your worst memories. And for him, one of those things was etched on his skin. Laser removal wasn't very effective or very available during any part of his life; he had to keep looking at those numbers until the day he died. Just like I'll have to keep looking at the scars on my chest. So maybe it's a little fitting that you get to keep looking at that swastika and feeling all that shame you say it makes you feel."

"You were close to your grandfather?" LeRoy asked after a contemplative pause.

"I lived with him for a little while," said Josh, unsure why he was willing to engage LeRoy in conversation like this. "For a few months when I was eight." He added the last part cautiously; he certainly was not going to talk about Joanie or the fire now.

"My granddad was in the Klan," said LeRoy, shame evident in his voice. "He used to come see me here almost every week and always topped off my commissary. He made me feel like I was this hero. I'm ashamed of this now, but knowing how proud of me he was, it just made it easier. It helped me survive the first few years here. I'd always idolized him as a kid. Then, when I told him that I'd heard the Truth and didn't want to live in hatred anymore, he said I was dead to him and he never came back. I prayed and prayed for him; I hoped he'd be saved for his own sake, but also because I missed him."

"Is he dead?" Josh asked candidly.

LeRoy nodded. "Last year," he explained. "Cirrhosis of the liver. I don't know what went on between him and God at the end, but I don't think he ever did get right, and that makes me so sad when I think about it. I wish maybe I could have talked to him one more time, maybe I could have helped him."

Josh said nothing. Strangely, he felt a little bit sorry for him over that. Prison, he imagined, was almost certainly crushingly lonely. If by disavowing white supremacy, he threw away a family relationship that meant a lot to him, that had to be painful. But he chose to do it anyway. For the first time ever, Josh began to consider the possibility that he was sincere.

"Are you really sick?" LeRoy asked, after they'd been silent for a while.

"Excuse me?" Josh asked, very defensive again.

"I read in the paper," LeRoy elaborated. "That you have to have surgery on your lungs, that it's a complication of the bullet-wound. That's why you have the oxygen, right?"

"Yeah," Josh answered. "It's not so much on my lungs, but the pulmonary artery. There's problems with internal bleeding in my chest, which is putting a lot of stress on my heart and lungs."

"Shit, that sounds pretty serious," said LeRoy.

"It is," said Josh, a little impatiently. "The surgery is dangerous, but we got a second and a third opinion, and they're all remarkably consistent on the point that I'll die if I don't have it soon."

"I'm sorry," said LeRoy.

"What about you?" Josh asked abruptly, eager to turn the conversation away from his health issues. "Are you, um, are you in a lot of pain?" he asked, the question feeling much more awkward than he realized it would be.

LeRoy smiled weakly. "Yeah," he said calmly. "They take me down to medical twice a day for a pain pill. I have to take it in front of them and they check under my tongue afterward to make sure I actually swallowed it. I don't think they realize that I wouldn't sell even one of those damn pills for all the money in the world and definitely not for whatever anyone around here could offer me for it. Because once it wears off, everything hurts so bad I can hardly stand it so I just lay in bed and try not to move too much until it's time for the next dose."

Josh regretted having asked. His deep desire to loathe Carl LeRoy wasn't being validated the way he would have liked it to be. He wanted to guide the conversation back to a place of righteous indignation; pity and sympathy were too uncomfortable.

"Tell me about Rosslyn," said Josh, almost at a whisper.

"What do you want to know?"

Josh was a bit thrown by this; he hadn't really thought about what he wanted to know. In truth, he was just hoping to hear a few things that would infuriate him and allow him to storm out in disgust. But he could hardly say that.

"Why were you the guy on the ground?" Josh asked. "You had to know your friends would be killed. One of them was fifteen. What did you do to make it so you would be the one to survive?"

LeRoy laughed a bit.

"What the hell is funny about that?" Josh snapped.

"You clearly don't know what it's like to be a good fanatic," said LeRoy. "I was the guy on the ground because I lost a stupid little contest we had at the gun range the day before. It killed me that I had to be the signal guy."

"You had a contest?" Josh asked, horrified. LeRoy just nodded.

"I was off my game," he replied cynically. "Maybe that was God's work, even then."

"Oh, just cool it with the "God's work" crap! I get it, that's your thing," Josh clapped back, irritated.

"No sir," said LeRoy, just as intently.

"What?"

"You can talk to me pretty much however you want, Mr. Lyman," LeRoy began. "That's more than fair. But I'm not gonna hold back from talking about God. Not with you, not with anyone."

Josh inwardly rolled his eyes, but supposed maybe his annoyance on that point was a little unfair.

"Okay," he said. He took a deep breath and decided to try to ask a more thoughtful question, perhaps something that might actually help him understand more. "How did God fit into your worldview when you wanted to murder Charlie Young?"

"It'd be easy to say I'd been an atheist or something before," said LeRoy. "But it wouldn't be the truth. I called myself a Christian, went to church, fully and totally believed everything I thought and everything I did was what God wanted. Not all skinheads are religious, but I was. I believed in a lot of false teachings."

Josh was quiet. "Is that why it was such a bummer to you that you hadn't managed to finish off the Jew you shot?" he asked, bitterly, staring him down. LeRoy held his gaze, seeing all the pain and anger so plainly visible in Josh's eyes.

"Yeah," said LeRoy.

"You should know," Josh started, "that even though he didn't get hit, you three did a lot of harm to Charlie Young. You probably don't know much about him, and I'm not going to tell you anything about him, except that he's a better man than you'll ever be, and by twenty-one, when this happened, he'd already been through enough."

"I know," said LeRoy.

"Do you know Ron Butterfield had to retire from active service?" Josh brought up, candidly. "The arthritis he has in the one hand started affecting his marksmanship, so he came off the president's detail three years ago. He didn't want to. He felt he really needed to be there for President Santos precisely because of Rosslyn."

"I didn't know that, but it makes sense," said LeRoy. "I worry a lot that some crazy sons of bitches who think the way I used to might feel inspired by Rosslyn and go after him or his wife, or God forbid, those kids."

"Well, the Secret Service worries a lot about that too," said Josh bitterly.

"There's nothing I can do about it but pray," said LeRoy. "So that's what I do."

Josh wanted to be snide again, but decided against it. "What happened when you starting changing your mind about it?" he asked.

LeRoy nodded before speaking. "When I first pulled away from the skinhead gang in here, they jumped me," he explained. "They beat my ass so bad, I was in the infirmary for two weeks. I was out of gen-pop for a while; that's pretty standard when you leave the gangs. But the isolation can make you crazy. That's when I started writing to preachers who I heard helped people like me. I didn't want them to do anything for me, just pray for me."

Josh sighed quietly as he took it in.

"When I got sick, they moved me to a different block," LeRoy explained. "It's mostly older guys and other sick people, so it's a little less lonely and a little less dangerous. It gets rough sometimes, but they mostly leave me alone. Cancer's kind of a line nobody crosses. And I have my bible study group."

"What would you do if you got out?" Josh asked, somewhat in spite of himself. "Do you have any family?"

"I'd go around to every Church, school, VFW hall, or whatever, in West Virginia that would have me," said LeRoy. "And tell my story, try to warn people to turn away from hate while they can. I'd do it as long as I had the strength to do it."

He paused for a moment, then took a deep breath and shook his head slightly.

"No, more importantly," he began again. "What I'd really want, I'd want to spend the time trying to put some things right with my mother," said LeRoy.

"She's still a white supremacist, right?" Josh asked.

"Yeah," said LeRoy. "She is. But I want to believe she could change. She didn't cast me off like my granddad did; she still loves me and I know it's gonna be hard on her when I go. If I could just spend some time with her, even just at the end, maybe she could understand what I understand now."

Josh nodded quietly.

"Look, Mr. Lyman," LeRoy began again after a long pause. "We've been talking a little while and it occurs to me that I've put off what I wanted to say to you."

Josh took a deep breath and looked at Carl LeRoy intently, fixating on his oxygen tube and the thin patches of short hair.

LeRoy met his gaze again, determined to look him in the eye as he said this. "I would give anything to take back the pain I caused you. I'm so, unspeakably sorry, and I'll regret it with every fiber of being for however long I've got left."

Josh was quiet.

"I am asking for your forgiveness," he said quietly. "I know I have God's forgiveness. And if I don't have yours, I can accept that. But I needed to ask you for it, face to face, and I'm so grateful that you came so I could do that."

Josh felt a knot twist in his stomach.

"I don't know if I can," he said softly, biting his lip. "I'm sorry." He couldn't believe that he was using the phrase "I'm sorry" in this conversation.

"It's okay," said LeRoy.

"I know other people have," said Josh carefully.

"The former president was very kind and gracious," said LeRoy. "But he was very defensive of you and Mr. Young. It's clear that he loves you both very much. I certainly respect that."

Josh swallowed a lump in his throat.

"Can I pray for you?" LeRoy asked, earnestly, leaning in towards the glass. "Here and now, with you? Josh?"

Josh bit his lip. "Sure," he replied.

Carl LeRoy put his hand on the glass and closed his eyes. Josh rolled his, but tried to stifle any noise of annoyance; this was almost over and he supposed he could at least be polite. His mind was finally leaving this place; he wanted desperately to get home to Donna, to meet his mother at the airport and spend the next couple of days with the people he loved.

"Heavenly Father," began LeRoy. "Please bless your son Joshua and bring him safely through his operation. Bless the hands and the hearts and the minds of the surgeons and all the medical and nursing staff."

Josh let his guard down a little. Carl LeRoy's way of speaking was a bit surprising to him; he sounded like a preacher and had a better vocabulary and than Josh would have assumed of him.

"And Lord, please help open his heart," LeRoy continued. Josh's eyes shot up at him. "Help him to let Jesus into his heart so that whatever happens, he may-"

"What the hell?!" Josh snapped.

"I'm sorry?"

"This is about converting me?" Josh asked indignantly.

LeRoy cleared his throat. "You saved me," he said. "I don't know what's going to happen to you. I can hope and pray that you're going to be alright, but only God knows for sure. And as far as I know, you aren't saved. I think God's telling me that this is my duty to you, to share my salvation and my joy."

"I'm not saved?" Josh snapped, adding a cynical laugh. "You think I'm going to hell? What, because I'm Jewish, right?"

"Please don't laugh, this is serious," said LeRoy.

"You're still a bigot," said Josh. "Just a less violent one."

"Speaking the truth isn't bigotry, sir," said LeRoy. "I wouldn't be doing you any favors by lying to you."

"I can't believe I wasted my time like this," Josh scoffed, leaning back in his chair. "Wow."

"It's never too late to accept him, Josh," LeRoy pressed on. Josh was overtly laughing now.

"Ok, that's it," he said, starting to stand up and gather up his oxygen tank pack. "I must have been completely out of my mind! I don't know what's going to happen to me on Tuesday either, but in the meantime, I want to spend every second with my wife. My mother and some very dear friends from out of town are coming to be with me, and you know what? I'd much rather spend the time with them than you. So I'm leaving now."

"Mr. Lyman-"

"I'd tell you to go to hell," Josh started. "But that seems a little on the nose, doesn't it? Thanks for the apology; it'll sure mean a lot to me when I'm back in intensive care next week from a surgery I only need because of you. Have a nice life." He harshly slammed the phone back onto its hook and stormed back towards the guard, eager to be escorted out of that place.

Once he was back in his car, he pulled out his cellphone. There were a handful of missed calls, three from Donna, one from his mother and one from a Maryland number he didn't recognize and assumed was some sort of spam call. He looked at the time; there was no way he would make it back to DC in time to go with Donna to pick his mother up from the airport. But he was so wound up from the ordeal and he knew he didn't want to talk about it yet, so instead of calling her back, he just sent her a text message and started off towards the city.

 **Future chapters won't be quite so long; thanks for sticking with me through this one! I hope the characterization of LeRoy didn't disappoint. I think this idea of whether or not people can actually change is an interesting one. I'm generally optimistic enough that I think people can, but it's messy and complicated, especially if they started from a place of such deeply toxic thinking as someone like this. I could see him still clinging to some sort of** **fundamentalism, and maybe that would be the best he could manage. And in any case, whether people can change is totally separate from the harm they cause before they change. I hope I treated that with nuance here. Thank you as always for the support for this story and I can't wait to read what you think!**


	13. Chapter 13

**Hello and thanks again for the lovely reviews on the last chapter!**

 **This was originally going to be a single chapter, but it started to run a bit long and I decided to split it and get something published now. I hope you enjoy it! Not a ton of plot, but hopefully some nice character stuff. I'm hoping to get the next chapter up soon!**

Pulling into the arrival lane at Dulles Airport, Donna's mind was racing with anxiety and frustration. It was pretty obnoxious what Josh had pulled. She had put in a long and stressful day at work, looking to tie up loose ends as well as possible before leaving the office for a while to take care of him. She had tried to call him a few times, to remind him about his mother's flight time, but he never answered.

Then, later in the afternoon, when she was getting ready to go home, she got a pair of texts from him:

 _I'm so sorry but I'm not going to be home in time to meet Mom, can you pick her up? I'll explain at home._

 _I'm sorry_

She had been really annoyed when she saw it, but she grudgingly agreed. Over the past few days, he'd been restless and irritable. He was barely sleeping at night and Donna was worried about him. But he'd left her in a tough predicament; Rachel had to be picked up from the airport, so Donna went.

When Donna saw her mother-in-law stepping out of the terminal, followed by a porter dutifully carrying her bag, she pulled up to the curb and parked the car.

"Rachel!" she called out, stepping out of the car and opening the trunk for her bag.

Rachel spotted her and walked over with a warm smile. She greeted Donna with a hug, but noticed immediately that Josh wasn't with her. Donna saw the smile fade off her face.

"He'll meet us at home," she said quietly. "I don't know where he went, but he told me he wouldn't be back in time." Truthfully, Donna was a little embarrassed; she felt she shouldn't have to make excuses for him like this to his own mother.

"Donna," said Rachel. "Why won't he talk to me?" she asked, almost desperately. Donna took a deep breath.

"His head's not in a good place, Rachel," she replied plainly. "He's not sleeping well. I've been catching him fixating on news coverage, especially that stupid interview. The other day he almost crashed the car because he got so wrapped up in what they were saying about the campaign on the radio; I only found out about that because he had the dog with him and he felt so guilty when she looked like she was limping later. And today, he's apparently disappeared for a few hours with just a vague promise to explain later."

Rachel took a deep breath and nodded. Her mind was racing, but she knew it wouldn't do much good to burden Donna with that.

"Are you okay?" she asked her daughter-in-law. "I hope people aren't forgetting to ask you that."

Donna smiled. "Yeah, I'm hanging in there."

"Good," said Rachel, patting her on the arm marternally. "Now let's get out of this pick-up lane before they ticket you."

Donna laughed. "Oh, Rachel, didn't you know?" she said. "My husband's something of a big-shot. I don't have to worry about tickets."

Rachel laughed. The porter put her bag into Donna's trunk and she tipped him generously.

Back at the house, Rachel had insisted on cooking dinner. Josh still wasn't home yet, but she was determined that they should have a traditional Sabbath dinner after sunset. So she was at work in the kitchen while Donna let Shea out in the backyard, changed her clothes and started to unwind from the day.

Rachel knew her way around any kitchen quiet well and she really quite liked the townhouse Josh and Donna had bought when they got married. That her son had remained a bachelor in an apartment well into his forties had bothered her a little, even though she objectively knew that wasn't entirely reasonable; it pleased her immensely to see him married with a house. Cooking up a nice dinner in the lovely kitchen he and his wife owned gave Rachel a lot of joy. She did it every time she visited.

Donna came into the kitchen, wearing casual clothes and in her bare feet. She pulled two wine glasses out of the cabinet and took a bottle of white from her wine fridge. Rachel looked up at her in slight surprise as she opened the bottle. The last time she'd seen Donna, Josh dutifully carried all her bags and she didn't touch a drop of alcohol. Rachel had waited eagerly for a happy announcement, which she assumed was imminent, but some weeks passed and none came. She told herself that perhaps they were waiting until the second trimester, and carefully held back from outright asking whenever she spoke to them. But now as Donna nonchalantly poured two glasses, Rachel wondered if she'd been completely wrong, or if perhaps there had been even more heartache in the Moss-Lyman house lately than she realized.

"I assume you'll join me," Donna said casually. "It's Alsatian Riesling, my newest love. One of the social secretaries turned me onto it."

"Those are drier than the German ones, right?" Rachel asked, peering at the bottle.

"Yep," said Donna, filling Rachel's glass and sliding it to her. "I've been feeling kind of crummy the last few days, but I got through the week, and I think that earns me some wine." She raised the glass. "Cheers."

"Cheers," said Rachel, clinking glasses with Donna.

Suddenly, Shea started to whine and run to the door. She wagged her tail and went right up to the door, barking excitedly. Donna and Rachel looked at each other.

"So, we're going to absolutely let him have it when he walks in, right?" Rachel asked.

"Oh, definitely," Donna agreed.

When Josh came in the door, he was greeted by unbridled warmth and affection from his dog, and cold stares from the two women who loved him the most in the world. He gave them a small contrite smile; he knew they were completely justified to be mad at him.

"Hi," he said quietly. He set down his keys and walked into the kitchen. Finally seeing him was almost overwhelming for Rachel.

"Where the hell have you been?" Donna asked.

Josh took a deep breath cleared his throat. He was a little embarrassed now, but he needed to tell them.

"I did something kind of stupid," he began.

"You? Never. I don't believe it," said Rachel snidely. Josh didn't laugh.

"I went to see him," he blurted out quickly.

Donna almost dropped her wine glass onto the floor. She knew immediately who he was talking about.

"It was a mistake," said Josh quickly, looking down at his shoes. "I drove two and a half hours into Virginia to spend an hour at a prison when I should have been here with you two. It was absolutely a mistake."

"Oh, Sweetheart," said Rachel, a lump forming in her throat. She suddenly found she was no longer interested in "letting him have it". She walked up to him and threw her arms around him.

"I'm so sorry Mom," he whispered to her. He looked up at Donna and saw the look of deep concern on her face.

"Why don't we sit down?" Donna suggested calmly.

At the table, Josh recounted the conversation he'd had with Carl LeRoy. During his story, Donna reached under the table and grabbed his hand, squeezing it tightly when it seemed like he needed it.

Rachel closed her eyes for a second and let out a heavy sigh. "So he no longer wants to murder black people, but still hates Jews?" she said with a bit of a bitter laugh. "Miraculous conversion indeed."

"I think I feel sorry for him," said Josh, almost to his own surprise when he actually articulated the thought. Both Donna and Rachel looked at him, taken aback. "I think he's just hard-wired to be a fanatic. He bought so fully into that fundamentalist Christian stuff and that's one of its natural conclusions."

"Christianity isn't what made him like that," said Donna, somewhat defensively. "That doesn't get him off the hook. I don't believe crap like that and even at different times in my life when I was more religious, I never did and was never even taught to, so don't say it's just a natural conclusion of Christianity. That isn't fair."

"That's not what I meant," said Josh. He really didn't want to allow anything even remotely approaching an argument about religion unfold in front of his mother, who would on numerous occasions admonish him to both observe his own religion better and make sure Donna felt hers was respected. "I just think whatever it was that he ended up latching onto, whether it was Christianity, another religion, or something else entirely, his personality is just such that he'd follow it to extremes. In a kind of pitiful way, I think it's the best he's capable of."

He took a deep breath.

"I left in a huff of righteous indignation," Josh started. "It felt really good." He paused and cleared his throat. "Then I had a long drive back to cool off and think about it, and that feeling wears off quickly. I don't know what I thought I'd get out of seeing him, but I wish I hadn't bothered. I didn't get any new insight; he's just a garden variety fanatic with a new coat of paint."

"Are you going to speak with the president about it?" asked Rachel. She had been struggling so hard with her own feelings about the matter of Carl LeRoy.

"No," said Josh very firmly. He would absolutely not discuss what he and Santos had said during their last meeting together in the Oval Office. "It's his decision and I'm too close to this to be a good advisor to him about it. It might be best for everyone if he makes up his mind while I'm out of the White House; that way, whatever he decides, it'll be harder for anyone to claim I'm pulling his strings."

A while later, the three of them were relaxing in the living room. Rachel had brought an old family photo album with her, and Donna was leafing through it with great interest while Josh watched the end of a ballgame on TV, occasionally butting in if he felt he needed to correct his mother's version of a story.

"I can't believe how much he looks like his dad," Donna mused, looking at photos of Noah Lyman in his youth and middle age.

"Don't slander my father like that, Donnatella," Josh chimed in, getting a laugh out of Rachel. "He was a good man and he doesn't deserve that!"

Most of the photos in the book were from later in Josh's childhood and early adulthood; Donna knew not to remark on that. But when she turned the next page, she was surprised to see one of a pretty little girl with curly brown hair and a wide grin that showed off a few missing front baby teeth; she was seated in a chair, proudly and carefully holding in her lap a newborn wrapped in a pale blue blanket. Donna had seen a few photos of Joanie, but never his particular one.

"She was so happy to be a big sister," said Rachel fondly. Donna was transfixed looking at the picture. "Until he'd been home about four nights. Then she tried very hard to persuade us to take him back to the hospital."

"I love this," Donna said as she continued to gaze at the photo.

"I wish I had more of Joshua's baby pictures," said Rachel soberly. "After the fire, people overwhelmed us with kindness. Anyone who had any pictures at all that she was in-family, other parents at her school, people from our synagogue, even one of her old piano teachers had five years worth of recital pictures-they just gave them to us. No one had multiple copies of pictures in those days; they just gave us what they had. Piece by piece, we assembled photos from most parts of our Joanie's life. That was a precious gift and I'm thankful for it everyday. But we lost almost all our pictures of him too; no one thought of that, we didn't even really think of that. I don't think it hit me until years later-I think either when he was about to start high school, or maybe sooner, like before his bar mitzvah-how much it hurt to not be able to look at all those moments again."

"I was a homely kid anyway," said Josh; indulging his instinct to head off anything too emotional with a self-deprecating joke. Rachel ignored him and turned the page of the book to reveal an 8x10 of Josh and his dad on his law school graduation day. There wasn't a particular chronological order to the album; Rachel used to vaguely intend to organize it, but eventually came to realize she liked it this way; too much chronology would highlight painful divides in her family's life, such as before the fire and after, or with Noah and without Noah.

It was starting to get late; Donna was tired from her day and went upstairs first, leaving Rachel and Josh for a little while. The game he was watching went into extra innings and even Rachel, who was fairly indifferent to sports, got somewhat into it.

"You know," Josh mused aloud as a new reliever started warming up on the mound and the broadcast cut to a commercial. "I think I've watched more baseball in the last four days than I have in the last two years."

"I'm surprised you're able to watch the Mets here," said Rachel. "I would think they'd call this out-of-market." When she and Noah first started going to Florida in the nineties after he retired, her husband would bemoan the lack of TV coverage from his preferred sports teams.

"I insisted on the premium sports cable package," Josh explained. "It's probably stupid; I don't really watch that much TV. But we can afford it. And I guess I'm enjoying it now."

Rachel felt a little uncomfortable with the small talk. Every time she glanced at Josh, it was freshly shocking and upsetting to see him on oxygen. Even when Noah was getting cancer treatments at the end of his life, he never had to have anything like that, such a visible and ever present sign of his illness. He'd already lost most of his hair years before, so when the drugs made the rest fall out, even that wasn't the kind of painful shock it was for some people.

"Retirement didn't suit your father very well," she said. "I don't imagine it would suit you very well either."

"Who said anything about retirement?" Josh asked defensively, wondering what she and Donna might have discussed in his absence.

"Well, my dear son, you are very old now," Rachel said sarcastically. Josh gave her a look and she laughed. "Oh don't be ridiculous; I would kill to be forty-eight again. So much of your life is still ahead of you. So many good things."

Josh sighed a little, and Rachel noticed.

"Can I ask how it's going with the fertility doc?" she asked quietly. Josh thought about whether or not to tell her. He had told Sam, and Donna told her mother, and recently, the First Lady. It wasn't really a secret anymore.

He shook his head softly; Rachel understood immediately that he wasn't saying "no, you can't ask", but that he was communicating what she had suspected, what was so hard to put words to. She reached over and touched his arm tenderly.

"Oh, Honey, I'm so sorry," she said. At that, a tear ran down his face; he wiped it away quickly and swallowed the lump in his throat.

"They said we can try again," said Josh. "Our doctor said the fact that she got pregnant as quickly as she did once she started the meds is a good sign."

"I'm sure that doesn't help very much," said Rachel.

"No, it really doesn't," Josh agreed.

They didn't speak anymore as the ballgame finally ended; the Mets lost on a walk-off double, and Josh cursed a little bit in a way that reminded Rachel of Noah. He turned off the TV but didn't get up from his recliner. Rachel started to get up; she'd had a long day and was eager to get to sleep, but something stopped her. She thought perhaps now was as good of a time as any to have a conversation she was putting off.

"Josh," she started. He looked up at her, attentively. "I, wanted, I wonder if we could, umm," she trailed off.

"What's up?" he asked casually. Rachel looked at his face and lost her nerve. She thought of what she might say to deflect. Fortunately, something came to her quickly.

"What time do you usually go to temple? I'll make sure I'm ready in the morning," she asked. She was a little proud of herself that she'd managed to, right in the moment, throw the discomfort onto him instead. He looked at her like a deer in the headlights.

"Usually?" he started. "Uhh, eight-thirty, I think. Or maybe nine-thirty. No it's ten, definitely ten. Maybe."

Rachel smiled. "Don't worry, we can look it up," she said. "But we're going tomorrow. That's not negotiable. And if Donna wants to go to church the next day, you'll go with her too."

Josh just nodded.

"I'm just so glad to be here with you. Goodnight, Josh. I love you."

Josh smiled. "Love you too, Mom." He suspected there was more on her mind, but he wasn't about to push her on it.

* * *

Monday morning, Donna was the first one to wake up. In the dark, she looked over at Josh asleep beside her and hated the thought of waking him. He looked calm and peaceful; as soon as this day began, that would be taken from him. He was supposed to check into Hopkins at ten for a battery of pre-op testing followed by a night of observation before the thing they'd spent months being afraid of. She glanced at her phone and decided he could probably sleep for another half hour.

In the kitchen, Donna started making coffee, trying to fortify herself for what would be a hard day. She thought grimly that she'd been having to do a lot of that lately. Her stomach felt unsettled with anxiety, as it had several of the last few days.

Her attention was summoned by the sound of footsteps coming down the stairs; they were too quiet and smooth to be Josh's.

"Morning, Donna," said Rachel quietly as she joined her daughter-in-law in the kitchen. The coffee finished brewing and they each took a cup.

"Did you sleep okay?" Donna asked. Rachel nodded.

"How about I make us some breakfast?" Rachel suggested. Donna was about to say no and insist there wasn't time, but she looked at Rachel's face and saw a strange sort of desperation. It dawned on her, heavily and painfully, that Rachel was considering the possibility that this could be her last chance to cook for her son. That was such an important way she showed love for people, and Donna couldn't think of denying her that. So she smiled.

"Let me help," she replied quietly and Rachel smiled. They started working together in silence. Rachel cherished moments like this with Donna; she loved her for her own sake and for how happy she made Josh, but there was a small part of her that relished little moments like these that gave her a chance to know what having an adult daughter might have been like. No one else would ever occupy the space in her heart that would forever belong to Joanie, but having Donna in her life now gave Rachel a little connection to the happier version of her life that she felt was taken from her.

As she started to cut up a piece of fruit, Rachel, before she even consciously realized the dark place her mind was racing to, swallowed a heavy lump in her throat. This bought her just a few seconds' worth of composure before she just burst into tears. Donna was setting the table, then immediately set the plates down and ran to her side, throwing her arms around her.

"I'm sorry," Rachel sobbed, squeezing Donna tightly.

"It's okay," said Donna immediately.

"I can't lose him, Donna," she cried. Donna found she had nothing comforting to say because she was struggling to keep control of that exact same feeling. But she wanted to be brave. Rachel took a deep breath and tried to regain some composure. When she heard Josh walking around upstairs, she reached for a paper towel to dry her eyes; she didn't want him to see that.

Josh came into the kitchen looking quite disheveled; his hair was wild and his expression was groggy. Donna kissed him as he took a coffee cup, then raked her fingers through his hair, making it look slightly neater. He smiled at her.

"I had a thought," he said, clearing his throat. Rachel and Donna looked up at him. "That we just make a run for it instead of going to Baltimore today. What do you think?"

* * *

As the morning senior staff meeting in the Oval Office was wrapping up, the president looked at Sam and could tell how heavily things were sitting on his mind.

"We'll need to have advance work out when I can get up to Baltimore in the next couple of days," said Matt to the staff. "There should be some space in the schedule on Wednesday or Thursday."

"Should we be looking to make more of it?" asked Otto. "It's a big university hospital; let's take meetings with researchers and administrators. Maybe talk to a classroom of medical students or visit some other patients."

"You want me to turn visiting my Chief of Staff in intensive care into a campaign stop?" the president asked, looking disgusted. "Isn't that a little ghoulish, even for a shameless career politician like myself?"

"It could be done tastefully," Amy chimed in. "I know that it sounds gross, but Otto's not entirely wrong in that there will be people there you should be talking to. Not just to be seen talking to them, but to actually talk to them. In both the rest of the campaign and the next four years, healthcare is at the center of every domestic policy conversation. If it was anyone else, I'd worry about offending them, but I think if you pitched this idea to Josh, he'd be pissed if you didn't do it."

"I don't like it," said Lou. Everyone looked at her with a bit of surprise. "I think we want to minimize the attention we're calling to this whole mess with Josh. It's fine for you to go see him, but don't make a day of it. If we want to do a whole healthcare listening tour, let's go to Walter Reed or GW in a couple of weeks and not half-ass it by throwing it on the back of a personal errand."

Sam glared at her. "'This whole mess with Josh'?" he asked.

"Sam, I don't know how, but someday I'm going to convince you that I'm not nearly as much Josh's enemy as you think I am," she replied calmly. "But this is playing out a certain way, and there is only so much we can do about it. There are rumors and straight-up lies about this spreading way too fast to even try to debunk half of them. Blogs and social media and YouTube and Reddit were never things you and Toby Ziegler had to contend with when you ran Communications, but they're reality now. I have an intern whose only job is to worry about Facebook, and this morning she showed me twelve slightly different versions of a post claiming Josh needs a lung transplant and that we had managed to get people bumped to move him up a list faster! My personal favorite version included a made-up Kazakhstan veteran who died waiting for lungs because we moved Josh ahead of him on the list; I thought that was a nice touch. Look, the rules of this game are changing and I don't have all the answers for what to do about that. But I do know that right now, in this scenario, where my boss and-as hard as this is for you to believe-my friend is not only sick, but having insane and cruel things said about him, there are steps we can take that are less likely to make it worse, for him and for the administration."

The room was uncomfortably silent for a second. Sam mulled over her words, then nodded apologetically at her. "Let's split the difference," said Sam. "Don't go out of our way to schedule anything; it's just a private outing on the schedule to visit someone in the hospital. But if while you're there, anyone wants to talk to you, and they will, you listen to as many people as you can. It's not a campaign stop, it's not a photo-op. No cameras, just listening. Then we can do a purposeful and more public event somewhere else later."

"Ok," said the president.

"The other thing I'm worried about," Lou began carefully, then turned to Sam, "is making sure the president's visits don't overlap with Jed Bartlet's. Two motorcades jamming up downtown Baltimore will not go over well, and we want to be purposeful about them being seen together. He's an asset under the right circumstances, but this would underscore Josh as the link between the two administrations and give Sullivan a chance to run that talking point for a little while."

Sam nodded.

Suddenly, Bram cleared his throat. Everyone looked at him and he almost instantly looked nervous. "Do we talk about the other thing now, or wait and hope we don't have to?"

"What do you mean?" asked the president. "What other thing?"

"We might have to totally clear your schedule with only a day or two's worth of notice," he said quietly. "Should we try to preemptively move things away from Wednesday and Thursday that would be a problem to cancel at the last minute? I'm worried particularly about the House and Senate Minority Leaders; you've got them both in the Oval Thursday as part of the budget talks."

"Wednesday or Thursday?" the president asked soberly. Sam nodded.

"Jewish funerals are held as soon as possible," he said softly. "If it goes wrong tomorrow-"

"If it goes wrong tomorrow, the last thing I will care about is my schedule," said Matt harshly. "And if a meeting with me gets cancelled at the last minute because it turns out that I have to bury Joshua Lyman, anyone who's mad about that can not only go straight to hell, but count on absolutely never seeing the inside of the Oval Office again for the duration of my presidency. In fact, I would expect nothing less than for the precious Minority Leaders to attend that funeral themselves unless Donna says she doesn't want them there. Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes sir," Bram replied.

Sam smiled sadly; the president's loyalty and love for Josh was deeply touching to him.

"I think that about covers it, everybody," said Santos, standing up. Everyone shot up to their feet. "Thank you."

The rest of the staff filed out, each with a reverent "Thank you, Mr. President." Sam stayed behind.

"Are you going up there later today?" Matt asked Sam when they were alone in the Oval.

"Yeah," Sam replied. "I don't know what time they'll stop letting him have visitors, but I plan to get there around seven."

"Tell him he's on my mind, Sam," said Matt. "And that he'll be in my prayers every second until I know the worst is behind him."

"I'll do that, sir," said Sam. Matt patted him on the arm; he looked in Sam's eyes and saw how visible his deep distress was.

"Sam, you're not going there to say 'goodbye' today, do you understand me?"

"Yes, Mr. President."

* * *

Josh felt pretty worn out by the time he was finally settled in his hospital room; the last few hours had been intense. When they first arrived at Hopkins, there had been a small gathering of press as he walked to the door; he did his best to seem confident, at one point smiling and sardonically thanking the reporters for their concern. Then came a mountain of admissions paperwork, asking for mundane information like his insurance and emergency contacts, as well as a few items that freaked him out just a little bit, such as a form from the hospital chaplain's office about his religious preference and another asking if he was a registered organ donor. After he was registered, the admissions nurse took all his vitals and drew some blood for testing, and then he was immediately made to change into a gown and whisked off for a chest x-ray, EKG, a complete angiogram of his heart and lungs, and a lung CT. The whole thing had taken hours.

Now in his room, he picked at his lunch, which had been delivered a long time ago and now was cold, while Donna watched him nervously. Rachel was back at the hotel where she and Donna planned to stay the next couple of nights.

"I can be trusted to eat without supervision, you know," he said a bit coolly to her; he could feel her watching him so intently and he didn't like it.

"You need to build up your strength," she said. "Don't be crabby."

Of course, hearing that only made him feel crabbier. But before he could say anything, there was a polite knock on the open door. It was Dr. Eisen, wearing his scrubs and a lab coat.

"Good afternoon," he said, walking in, followed by his PA, looking intently at records on her tablet.

"Hello, doctor," said Donna, somewhat nervously, standing up and shaking his hand. Josh gave a polite smile and his attention, but didn't say anything.

"So everything looks pretty good for tomorrow," began the surgeon as he glanced at a report in a folder. "No surprises in the tests we ran today. Your BP is still a little higher than I'd like it to be, but we were expecting that." He walked over to Josh brandishing his stethoscope. "I'm going to take a listen to your lungs now."

The metal was cold against Josh's skin. "Deep breath in," instructed Eisen. Josh complied. "And out." He slid the device around a little on Josh's back. "Again." Now he switched it to the other side, to the front of his chest. "And one more time, in. And out."

Donna watched the exam anxiously, as if afraid that right now, something terrible and unexpected would be discovered, even though she knew that wasn't likely.

"Josh, if I can have you lie flat on your back now," Eisen instructed. "I want to take a look at where your existing surgical scars are." Josh nodded quietly and sank down into the bed, while the doctor hit the button to flatten it and opened the thin hospital gown, exposing Josh's chest. Josh felt extremely uncomfortable now like an injured or otherwise dominated animal lying on its back; he carefully avoided eye contact with Eisen as he studied his chest.

"Ok, the incision we're going to make tomorrow will pretty closely follow this one," he explained. "But obviously, we're not also looking for a bullet, so it's going to be a little straighter and not quite as long. You'll have chest tubes inserted here and here," he added, touching spots between Josh's ribs.

He ran his index finger along Josh's sternum, feeling the hard ridge that had formed where it had healed before. "This is going to be tough," he started to explain. "We're breaking your breast bone for the a second time. The healing will take a long time and possibly be more painful that before."

"It was pretty goddamn painful before, doc," said Josh soberly.

"I won't lie to you; it will be bad. But we're going to do everything we can to manage your pain," said Eisen. He stepped back and gave Josh a nod to indicate his exam was done; relieved, Josh immediately recovered his chest, readjusted the bed and sat up.

"So just to go over the plan one more time," Eisen started. "You won't be coming back to this room at all; you're going to go straight to surgical ICU afterward. For the first night, you're going to have one-to-one nursing and you'll probably stay intubated until the next afternoon."

"Why will he have to be intubated so long?" Donna asked nervously.

"His lungs will need the time to recover," explained the surgeon. "At least at the beginning, you'll have pretty heavy-duty IV pain meds, and the more you can sleep the better. But as soon as possible, we need to get you sitting up, then standing and walking. The most likely serious post-op complication is pneumonia, and getting you moving will help prevent that."

Josh nodded; some of this sounded like it would be quite the same as it was ten years ago. At least now, he knew about it in advance and could try to prepare himself for it. But maybe, he thought, it was worse to know what was coming, because he knew exactly how awful it was.

"Do you have any questions?" he asked, directing the question at both Josh and Donna. Josh was deep in his thoughts and could very scarcely think of anything he was sure he wanted to ask. He was so wrapped up in it, that he didn't notice how overwhelmed Donna looked.

"He'll live?" she said in a small, shaky voice. That snapped Josh out of his self-pitying reverie. He reached over and grabbed her hand, squeezing it tightly.

Dr. Eisen gave a gentle, but slightly and perhaps unintentionally condescending smile. "We're going to give him the very best chance to make a full recovery, Mrs. Lyman. My team and I are very good at this. I've written textbooks on vascular surgery that are used in medical schools all over the country, but more important than that, I've operated on thousands of people, often the most complex cases that no other surgeons would touch."

That didn't really reassure her, but she swallowed a lump in her throat and nodded quietly. She cleared her throat, feeling a need to get back to business.

"He doesn't sleep well in hospitals," she said. Josh would normally have found it a little annoying to have her talk for him like that, but after what he'd just seen, all he felt was so lucky to be loved so much by her. "Can you give him something for tonight? I don't want him to be lying awake all night."

Eisen and the physician's assistant both nodded. "Yes, definitely," he said. "It's important you get something resembling a decent night's sleep. We'll get you a pill tonight."

Josh nodded. "Thank you," he said.

"Thank you doctor," said Donna. Soon they were alone in the room again. Donna scooted her chair close to his bedside and looked at him; his face was tense.

"Did Toby ever call you?" she asked carefully. Josh just shook his head. "I'm sorry to hear it; that's disappointing," she added.

"I'm not gonna spend any more time worrying about it," he said bitterly. Donna just nodded; she was genuinely and sincerely disappointed that Toby hadn't reached out to Josh.

Soon, there were more footsteps approaching the room; this time it wasn't medical staff, but, to the delight of both Josh and Donna, it was CJ and Danny along with little Emily. Donna got up immediately and embraced them as they came in. CJ passed Emily to Donna, whose face absolutely lit up as she carried her over to Josh.

"How was your flight?" he asked earnestly, glad to see them.

Danny made a bit of a face and CJ laughed. "Flying is a little bit of a challenge still," he explained. "We tried a few things, like for the noise and to keep her little ears from popping too much, but it was basically six continuous hours of screaming and sobbing. The whole plane probably hated us." Then a slightly wicked smile started forming on his lips. "At least Emily was pretty good the whole time, though." CJ slapped him playfully.

"How are you, Josh?" CJ asked eagerly.

"I'm okay," he replied, in between making goofy faces at the baby in Donna's lap, getting her to smile and laugh. He turned his attention back to CJ and Danny and his expression got serious. "It means a lot to me that you're here."

"There's nowhere else we could possibly be right now," said CJ. Something on her face must have really betrayed the shock and distress she felt at seeing Josh, not only on oxygen but in a hospital bed, because Josh sat up and leaned forward towards her.

"CJ, it's okay," he said quietly. She took a deep breath and held onto her composure.

"It's just not fair," she replied. "I can't believe you have to go through this now; it just isn't fair."

"And here was me, thinking Rosslyn was completely in the past," said Josh in a tone that conveyed a bit of the cynicism and self-pity he felt about the situation, but was still strangely light. "But it's going to be alright. I've gotta stick around long enough for this one to start finding me annoying," he added, pointing at Emily.

When CJ and Danny were finished visiting, Donna went back to the hotel to meet Rachel and have an early dinner, meaning Josh was alone for a little while. Since he was tired, he thought perhaps he ought to try to sleep, but he couldn't manage it. He started scrolling through his phone and looking at the news, but it mostly only frustrated him; the best it really could offer him was a slight distraction.

After a while, to his enormous relief, Josh heard someone approaching his room again; being alone with his thoughts was the worst thing. It was Sam this time, and Josh was very glad to see him.

"It's only like 7:15, what the hell are you doing in bed, old man?" Sam taunted as he sauntered into the room, with his sleeves rolled up, his tie loosened and a "Visitor" sticker affixed to his dress shirt. He was smiling, but Josh could sense that it was a bit of an act; Sam was working very hard to put on a brave face.

"Hey cut me some slack, I'm sick, you insensitive jackass," Josh shot back. Sam pulled up a chair and sat beside him. "Thanks for coming, Sam."

Sam's face got a bit serious. "It bothers me that I can't be here tomorrow," he said soberly.

"I know," Josh replied. "But I need you to be there instead." Sam just nodded.

"We got a new nose-count on the emissions standards bill," said Sam, intuiting that Josh would want to hear about work. "Linder announced she would vote yes, and that gave cover for two more from Michigan to switch too. It's gonna pass."

"How'd you get Linder?" Josh asked. "She was a hard no a week and a half ago."

"Amy," said Sam. "She's been on the phone with her all week. Linder wants more funding for NIH grants aimed at reducing maternal deaths; we're going to work out the specifics over the next couple of weeks."

"Get Donna in on this," said Josh immediately, without skipping a beat. "The First Lady wants to work on maternal health and Donna's been doing a lot of research, and she's been taking a few meetings on the hill; she thinks there's even some moderate Republican support to be found. If this is what Linder wants for her vote on emissions standards, we can give it to her, probably even more than she was hoping for. It won't just be NIH grants; Donna's picturing a Surgeon General's task force and an aggressive national awareness campaign."

"Josh," said Sam gently. "We know."

"What?"

"Donna met with Amy on it this week," said Sam. "She showed us everything she's working with the First Lady and once she's back at work, she's going to be in on the meetings with Linder."

Josh felt a bit dejected; he always wanted to think he was ten steps ahead of everyone, but here was proof that the White House was going on without him.

"Donna didn't mention anything," he said quietly. "The last I heard of this, it was all still in development; they weren't ready to bring it to the West Wing."

"She knew it would help win Linder over on emissions standards," explained Sam. "Anyway, she probably just didn't want to talk shop with you at home when you were supposed to be resting. I probably shouldn't be-"

"Please don't finish that sentence," said Josh. "I want to know what's going on. It's going to drive me out of my mind to be out of the loop."

"I promise you a detailed and concise daily memo," Sam began. "As soon as you go home."

"That could be ten or eleven days from now," Josh protested. "The country will be unrecognizable by then."

"I'll bring you your very own copy of the _Post_ when you're out of intensive care," said Sam. "That's more than Donna ever wanted to let you have for a good month and a half after Rosslyn, and I'm sure I'm risking far worse wrath now that she's your wife."

"She knows that's a losing battle since I have an iPhone now," said Josh. Sam smiled.

"Something came up during Senior Staff today," Sam began, hesitantly. "Bram of all people, and I don't really know how I kept it together. He was worried about, whether, what to do if, meetings the next couple days, if…"

"If the president has to cancel meetings to go to a funeral this week?" Josh asked, cutting straight to the quick. It wasn't like Sam to be so inarticulate and Josh knew exactly what he was thinking. Sam nodded. "Bram cut his teeth on advance. Don't fault him for that; it's just how his mind works and it's incredibly valuable."

"Josh," said Sam, urgently and intensely. His friend met his gaze and saw that he looked like he might start crying.

"Come on, man," said Josh quietly. "Let's not do this."

"I'm sorry," Sam said, almost choking on the words as tears started pouring down his face. It was almost undignified; because he had tried so hard to be strong, when he finally did lose control, it was a much bigger display than if he'd just allowed himself a few tears sooner. Josh reached for his hand and squeezed it comfortingly. It was one of those very rare moments where Joshua Lyman understood that he shouldn't speak. He just quietly held Sam's hand, hoping to give him a little bit of comfort and strength, just the way his best friend had done for him ten years ago as the ambulance raced death to get him to GW.

Sam dried his eyes and regained his composure a little bit.

"Let's pretend for a little while that this isn't happening," said Josh gently. "Just talk to me about work for a bit, okay?"

Sam nodded. "What do you want to know?" he asked, clearing his throat.

"I'm guessing you've been called into the sit-room at least a couple of times already," said Josh with a smile. "How did that go? I felt like an idiot the first time I was there as COS."

"Funny story there," Sam began, relaxing a little bit. He sat back in his chair and started telling Josh about the previous week. Both men were back at ease now; they were in their element talking about the problems of the White House and the goings-on of the federal government. The two friends would have no choice but to face whatever was about to happen, but their shared passion for their careers was never dampened by even the most frightening of circumstances.


	14. Chapter 14

**So sorry for the long delay; this was a tough one to write (as I think you'll appreciate when you read it). Thanks everyone for your patience. I'm determined to keep cranking out this story, even though I know I'm not updating very frequently. Please let me know what you think in the reviews!**

Sam visited with Josh for almost an hour, then reluctantly left when Donna and Rachel came back; he wanted to stay as long as he could, but he understood that they needed that time with him. So he hugged Donna and asked her to keep him updated before going on his way.

When he was back in DC, he went to an upscale bar where he was to meet Ainsley Hayes. When he first made the plans with her, he was excited to see her, but now he was sullen and emotionally exhausted from his visit with Josh; he thought briefly about trying to weasel out of it, but decided that would be ungentlemanly. So he took a seat and ordered a Bourbon. He drank it quickly and ordered another while he waited. A Secret Service agent paced a bit near the bar, keeping watch. Sam was still getting used to being the one with his own detail, even a small one.

When he saw Ainsley walking in, he felt a strange sort of nervous excitement, almost like a kid in high school. He hadn't seen her in a long time, and Sam seemed to think she had somehow gotten lovelier with age. Her hair was a little shorter and a slightly darker, more modern shade of blonde that it had once been. She smiled warmly when she saw him.

He stood up and greeted her with a hug and a chaste kiss on the cheek.

"It's so nice to see you Sam," she said, sitting down. Sam ordered a fancy cocktail for her and another straight Bourbon for himself.

"What brings you into town?" he asked.

"Republican things of which you would probably disapprove," said Ainsley coyly. "Mostly convention related."

"To be honest, I was a little surprised you haven't been more involved in Sullivan's campaign," said Sam.

"Can I tell you a secret?" Ainsley asked.

"Yes, please," Sam replied eagerly. She leaned forward conspiratorially.

"I don't particularly like him," she said. Sam's eyes lit up.

"So I can tell the President he has your vote?" he teased.

"Hardly," said Ainsley with a sly smile. "I like Sullivan's policies just fine. I just don't like him. Certainly not well enough to get too far down in the campaign weeds." Her face was a little serious suddenly.

"What he said at the last convention?" Sam asked, recalling the former VP candidate's infamous and cringe-worthy use of the word "sclerotic" in speech four years prior. She nodded.

"That was cheap and that was dirty," she said. "You know how much respect I have for Jed Bartlet; I couldn't forgive that. I was even pretty disappointed in Vinick for not calling him out on it at the time."

Sam smiled; he remembered feeling so furious when he heard that, even though he was entirely out of politics at the time.

Ainsley studied him for a moment; his face was heavy with stress, but he looked as unfailingly handsome as always. She wondered how much he would actually want to talk about what was surely on his mind. So she started by chiding him about the president's remarks in Wisconsin, just as she had threatened to do. As she expected, he debated her vigorously for a while as they each had another drink.

When the conversation was starting to lag, Sam realized he felt a little drunk. He hadn't planned on this and was a little embarrassed about it. But the day, and indeed the last several days, had been exhausting and with the help of several pours of top-shelf Bourbon, that exhaustion had caught up to him. His mind wandered back to the hospital. The more he thought about it, the more mad at himself he felt for crying in front of Josh; he should have been stronger for his friend.

It wasn't lost on Ainsley how suddenly he'd become so sullen. She'd also noticed how many drinks he'd had and thought that it wasn't particularly like him.

"Sam," she said quietly and gently.

He looked up at her, earnestly. He wasn't crying this time.

"I thought about something like this happening," said Sam grimly. "To Josh. Before I agreed to take the deputy position, I made a big deal about insisting he go away for a while during the transition. I hadn't talked to him in a few months because of the campaign, but when I'd see him on TV or in the papers, he just looked so worn out and so much older than he was. I guess I didn't know exactly what I thought could or would happen, but between the shooting and the job and what had happened to Leo, I was so afraid he'd have a heart attack or something. I don't know why I thought it would make any difference at all for him to take a vacation; it's pretty stupid really."

"No it's not," said Ainsley. "You care about him. There's nothing stupid about that."

"Ainsley," he said, almost urgently. "What if I just saw my best friend alive for the last time?"

Ainsley's heart swelled with sadness and compassion for Sam. She reached across the table and lightly touched his forearm. Her first instinct was to insist that everything would be fine, but something told her that wasn't what he needed.

"There's so much we can't control, Sam," she started. "But you went to see him and you spent time with him and you showed him that you care. Being there is something you can control and it matters a lot. I have no doubt that he knows how loved he is. And to have that be true when the time comes-whether for Josh that's now or hopefully forty years from now-might be the best any of us can hope for."

Much to his surprise, perhaps because he knew Ainsley well enough to know that she would never says something like that insincerely, Sam felt comforted.

* * *

Donna and Rachel had a small understanding before they returned to the hospital that evening; Donna wouldn't immediately come up to the room, but make a protracted trip down to the cafeteria for a coffee. Rachel needed a little time to talk to her son alone and now that she'd put it off so much, this had to be her chance. Donna at first wanted to know what she meant to say to him, but realized quickly that Rachel felt a great deal of distress about this, so she gave her space.

As she strode past the Secret Service agent into Josh's room, Rachel felt strangely nervous. He smiled warmly at her as she sat next to him.

"Sam looks good, doesn't he?" said Rachel, trying to lead with casual conversation.

"Annoyingly so," said Josh with a smile.

"You're very handsome too, Dear," she replied in a light teasing tone. After a moment, her expression got a little more sober. "You know, I've been thinking about what you said, about how going to see Carl LeRoy was a mistake. And I think I disagree with you."

Josh raised an eyebrow incredulously.

"I mean," she began carefully. "I'm so sorry that you don't feel you got anything out of it; that's what I care the most about. But even still, going there like that, when he asked you to…" she started to trail off, then cleared her throat and tried again. "Joshua, you showed enormous kindness to a dying person, not because he deserved it, but because you could. It wasn't a waste of time; it was the sort of thing that more people would do in a better world. I think of what that says about the kind of man you are, and I find that 'proud' doesn't begin to describe how I feel."

"Mom," Josh began. But his mother wouldn't let him get a word in; she grabbed his right hand in both of hers and held it fiercely.

"There are things I need you to forgive me for," she said suddenly and urgently, realizing there was no gentle way to build up to her point. "I realize I'm doing something really unfair to you by asking now; it was cowardly of me to let years and decades, even just the last few months, go by like this."

"What are you talking about?" Josh asked, somewhat anxiously. "We don't have to do this now." Rachel shook her head, took a deep breath and composed herself.

"Please," she said firmly.

Josh hesitated a moment, then gave her a nod.

"For starters, I've spent forty years denying you closure you might have needed and, maybe worse, insulting your intelligence," she began, clearing her throat, "by pretending and insisting that I never blamed you."

Josh's lower lip dropped open a bit and he stared at her, feeling genuinely speechless. His mother looked like she was in agony as she continued to speak.

"After she died," Rachel began again. "I went to this dark place. I started obsessing over everything I'd ever thought, ever hoped for, ever done. I guess was trying to understand God; what had I done to anger Him enough to make Him want to hurt me like that? I kept coming back to this idea that the point was I'd been ungrateful by wanting you so badly. When Joanie was little, I wanted a second child but years went by and it didn't happen. I had about given up on the idea when you came along and I was so happy. Did my happiness mean somehow that I didn't treasure her enough, and now God was going to make me pay for that? I wondered these things, Josh."

"Oh God, Mom, I, I…," Josh began. He swallowed a heavy lump in his throat and found he wasn't even sure how to finish that sentence.

"It was wrong of me," Rachel continued. "So unspeakably, unforgivably wrong. But I know that, especially in those first weeks and months, I projected that onto you. I dumped all of these terrible feelings and burdens onto an eight year old boy who'd just survived a trauma too. Your father wasn't stepping up the way he needed to either; he started drinking a lot, which he never really did before, and once he went back to work he would spend a hundred hours a week at the office or more, just like when he was fresh out of law school. He was hurting and I guess that was how he survived. I know he regretted that so much, Josh. For the rest of his life, he regretted it."

Josh was quiet; through his adult life, he tried so hard to avoid these memories. It was so much easier never to talk about them; Donna didn't even know all of the details.

"I came to understand it, Mom," he said gently, trying to give her some consolation. "It's okay."

"It's not," Rachel practically snapped. "You should never have had to come to understand anything; we were your parents and we owed you better."

"You were just a boy," she started again. "And you had gone through this horrible thing, even more than the rest of us because you were there. You lost your sister, you lost your home, you could just as easily have been killed too, and you had parents who were so lost in grief that no one bothered to try to help you. You were in pain, but because I only cared about the pain I was in, I pushed you away when you needed me to hold you closer."

Josh closed his eyes tightly, trying to brace against the onslaught of emotion he felt rising inside. His mother squeezed his hand.

"Sending you to stay with your grandfather like that," she continued. "That was selfish and cowardly, but maybe it ended up being the only responsible thing we did back then; at least it was something to keep you away from how toxic we'd allowed our lives to become."

"I felt like you didn't want me," Josh whispered. He had never given voice that thought. It sat buried in his mind for four decades; he never came close to articulating it, even to his closest friends, to his wife or even the various therapists he'd seen in his adult life. And he absolutely never, ever wanted to express that to his mother. But there was no stopping it now. "I thought you and Dad would have been happier if it had been the other way around, if she'd gotten out."

Rachel squeezed his hand so hard that it almost hurt as she choked back tears. Josh pulled himself up into more of a sitting position and reached with his other hand to touch her shoulder comfortingly. She was furious with herself for being so weak; he shouldn't be reassuring her now.

"I got older and realized it was more complicated than that," he said. "It's okay, Mom. It really is."

"I'm so sorry, Josh," she said, trying to maintain her composure. "You know, some time passed for me and I came enough out of the fog to see how lucky I was to still have you. And I promised myself I would never go a minute without remembering that, and that I would make sure you always knew how much your father and I loved you."

"And I do," said Josh quickly, trying to be reassuring. "I do know."

"But what was lost in that," Rachel pressed on, "was that I never atoned for the way that I hurt you. You were always so smart, so perceptive; I should have always appreciated the way you would have picked up on and internalized the way we treated you, the way we shut you out. But I never acknowledged it because I was so ashamed of myself. And you deserved that acknowledgment; especially as you got older, you deserved honesty and candor, and you deserved a chance to be angry if you needed to be. I denied you that. I denied you that because I didn't want to be accountable for the way that my thoughts and my behavior might have hurt my son. I didn't want to face it. I thought as long as I just made sure to treat you well going forward, the past was the past and it didn't matter. I put the burden of being okay and moving on onto the shoulders of a nine year old kid."

"I've never stopped wondering if it was somehow my fault," he replied, at barely more than a whisper. "Or if I shouldn't have gotten out if she didn't. Sometimes I wonder, or I'm afraid that if I don't do this, or accomplish enough of that, that I won't…" he trailed off a little, then cleared his throat and try again. "It's not all the time, probably not even most of the time, but sometimes, I worry that I haven't done enough to justify surviving when, when she didn't."

"You never had to justify anything," said Rachel.

"I'm sorry, I shouldn't be telling you this," he said quickly. Rachel shook her head fiercely.

"No!" she said. "No, that's the problem and that's what I never wanted you to have to feel! You never should have had to keep that from me; I should have been there to listen to all of it, from the beginning. I think I taught you that you had to protect me from any bad feelings you ever had and that might be the worst thing I ever did to you."

She turned over his right hand and traced his scar gently with her finger, then pulled his hand up to her face and kissed his palm along the harsh red line. Josh felt the heat of embarrassment rush to his face; he still, after all these years and all the therapy he'd had, felt shame about his PTSD when it came to talking with his mother.

"Like this," she said. "I think about this, how you were once in so much pain that you hurt yourself. Where the hell was I? Why didn't I notice? I was so obsessively worried about you after you were shot, but I didn't notice that!? And it was almost a year later before you even told me about it."

"I'm sorry about that," he said. "I kept it from you so long because I couldn't stand the thought of telling you."

"No," said Rachel. "I'm not mad that you didn't tell me; you're a grown man and you have a right to some privacy. I'm mad at myself if I ever made you feel like you couldn't tell me. And that's not on you, that's on me. I should have done things differently. I should have made sure you always understood that all I ever needed or wanted from you was just for you to be you. I know I give you a hard time about calling more often, but that's not so important; you have your life and I'm happy for you and proud of everything you've done."

Josh smiled weakly. Rachel reached across to his face and pushed a piece of his hair back, almost in the way she might have done when he was a small boy getting his picture taken.

"You've been my reason to keep living, Joshua," she said. "Just by being here, being my son. I need you to know that."

Josh closed his eyes a second and nodded contemplatively. "I don't want you to have to go through that again," he said quietly. "I want to be able to say, to be able to promise, that you won't, but I guess I can't."

"I know, Honey," Rachel replied, tearfully.

"Will you be okay?" he asked, very softly. She just started shaking her head. She knew what he was talking about.

"No," she said. "I won't be; there's no way I could be. Not even a little bit."

Josh decided not to press her, and realized there wasn't much he could say that would prove very helpful, so instead he sat up and leaned towards her to kiss her on the forehead.

Just then, Donna appeared quietly in the doorway.

"I think they're going to kick us out of here soon," she said, walking in and sitting down on the opposite side of the bed from Rachel. Rachel nodded and stood.

"I'll give you two some time," she said, giving Josh's hand one more squeeze.

"I love you, Mom," he said, quickly, almost urgently. It wasn't necessarily in character for him to be the one saying that first, but he felt compelled to now.

"I love you," she replied. "Get some sleep. I'll see you in the morning."

When she was gone, Donna handed him a paper bag from the cafeteria. He opened it up and was childishly delighted to see a warm chocolate chip cookie.

"They have you on a cardiac patient diet, whatever that means," she said. "So I'm guessing you probably aren't supposed to have this. But I checked with the nurse and you aren't technically NPO until midnight and I decided that if any person alive needs a cookie right now, it would probably be you."

"I knew I had some good reason for marrying you," he said with his mouth full. Donna smiled.

"Your mom was crying?" Donna observed more than asked. Josh nodded. "I know she was really anxious to talk to you about something. Is she okay?"

"Yeah, I think she's okay for now," Josh replied. He swallowed his bite of cookie and cleared his throat. "We talked a little about my sister." That was as much detail as he could manage; Donna understood and nodded soberly.

"I had a thought," Donna started, glancing around the room and noticing that there was a small couch. "Maybe I could stay here with you tonight. I could sleep over on that couch. Do you think they'd let me?"

"Don't do that," Josh insisted. "Tomorrow is going to be tough on you, I know that. I'll be okay tonight."

"Alright," said Donna a bit reluctantly. "If you're sure."

"Hey, how come you didn't tell me that you'd taken your maternal health initiative to the West Wing?" Josh asked abruptly, remembering his conversation with Sam. Donna smiled, thinking how fitting it was that he managed to think about work at this moment.

"Did you forget how I banned Toby from visiting you after Rosslyn because he refused to follow my rule about no work?" she asked with a grin. "I was afraid our offer to work with Linder wouldn't work as well as we hoped and then I'd have you all nervous about the emissions standards bill."

"Sam says it's working great," Josh said. "You're really good at this, Donna." She smiled.

"The bill's going to pass and the First Lady is really excited about the initiative," said Donna.

"So the business of the executive branch moves along just fine without me," said Josh, a bit morosely. Donna was determined not to indulge him.

"Well, if you insist on putting it that way, yes. Yes it does," she said. Josh opened his mouth to object somehow, but Donna raised an eyebrow and he realized he had nowhere to go.

"Is there anything," Donna started again after a pause, more serious this time. "Anything else we need to talk about? About what happens?"

Josh drew a breath thoughtfully then shook his head. "No, I don't think so," he said. "We've gone through that up and down."

"Okay," Donna agreed. She was glad; a part of her really didn't think she could stand another conversation right now about the various bad contingencies they'd been trying to account for over the last few weeks and months.

Josh abruptly started to sit up and Donna looked at him, confused.

"What are you doing?" she asked. He swung his legs over the side of the bed to stand up.

"You have your phone with you, right?" he asked, then pushed himself up onto his feet, carefully bringing as much slack from the oxygen tube with him as possible.

"Yeah," said Donna, reaching into her purse for the phone. She smiled a little bit, starting to realize what he had in mind. Josh reached out his hand to her.

"Put some of your music on," he said. "I want to dance with you."

Donna smiled, but didn't quite take him seriously. "You hate my music," she protested.

"Yeah but only because you have objectively horrible taste in music," said Josh. "It's nothing personal. But I'm willing to overlook that because I really want you to dance with me right now Donnatella."

"Okay," said Donna, thinking the idea was a little silly but choosing to indulge him anyway. She turned the speaker volume all the way up on her iPhone and hit "shuffle" on her music. The very first song was a light pop song; Josh was about to make a crack about it, but Donna raised an eyebrow and he held his tongue. Instead, he took her hand and her waist. She moved in close to him, wrapping her free arm around him and leaning into him. It didn't at all match the music, but they seemed to wordlessly decide that this would be a slow dance.

Josh and Donna had danced together in some very grand and glamorous settings, from upscale political fundraisers to state dinners and inaugural balls. Now they couldn't move very far from one spot beside the bed because of Josh's oxygen. He was wearing hospital socks and no pants, but Donna didn't care; to her, he was every bit as perfect and dignified as he would be in his tuxedo.

The song changed over to something slower. This time the genre was country, and it really took all the self discipline Josh had not to tease her a little bit. But instead he just savored the moment with her.

"This'll be over soon," said Josh quietly. "And we're going to be able to get on with our lives."

"I wish you didn't have to go through it at all," Donna replied quickly. "I can't stand the thought of you being in that much pain for what could be a really long time."

"I'll be alright," said Josh, trying to sound reassuring. "Did you know, I got shot once?" he added, trying to be light. Donna didn't think it was funny, but she didn't rebuke him either; she thought that if there was a chance that a little gallows humor made him feel even a bit less afraid, that was a good thing, whether she liked it or not.

"Maybe next time we dance it'll be in Paris," said Donna wistfully.

"I like that idea," said Josh. "And the next time we're in a place like this, it's going to be for something good, maybe about a year from now."

Donna didn't say anything; she kissed him instead.

"What should we name them?" Josh asked; they'd had versions of this conversation before, but he wanted to talk about it now. Doing so was another way to make the future seem tangible and certain.

"I like Sadie and Olivia for a girl," Donna replied; she thought about the subject often and had suggested entirely different names nearly every single time they discussed it. She sometimes wondered if her not locking onto a favorite name was a sort of defense mechanism against the uncertainty, a way that her mind could keep the idea abstract and distant when her heart wanted desperately to believe it would soon be very real and concrete.

"Hmmm, I think a lot of little girls are called Olivia these days," Josh objected. "I don't want her to be one of like seven kids in her class with the same name. What about boys?"

"Logan or Jackson for a boy," said Donna.

"I love you very much Dear, but there is no universe in which my son will be called Jackson," said Josh immediately. Donna laughed.

"I figured that one was a stretch," she conceded. "What about you? Besides just objectiving to all my ideas, what do you want?"

Josh's expression got a little bit more sober. "I had a thought," he said. "It doesn't have to be a first name, but maybe…" he trailed off a bit, but Donna understood.

"Middle names?" she offered. Josh nodded, but didn't speak. "Joan for a girl; Noah for a boy?"

"We don't have to," he said quickly.

"I want to," said Donna, almost immediately. "I think it's perfect." Josh swallowed a lump in his throat, then kissed the top of her head.

As the next song was winding down, a nurse appeared in the doorway. She looked at the couple sharing a dance and gave them an apologetic smile. Josh and Donna looked at each other sadly.

"I'm sorry to break this up," said the nurse. "But it's 9:30 and I've got that sleeping pill for you; you're scheduled to start getting prepped for surgery at seven tomorrow, so you really need to take it now."

Josh nodded. "Okay, thank you," he said to the nurse, then sat down on the bed. She handed him the pill and a small cup of water. Almost reluctantly, he took it. The nurse lingered in the doorway, almost intrusively, in an effort to get Donna to actually leave.

Donna looked at Josh and hated to leave him. She knew he was putting on a brave face now; the night would be hell for him. Standing next to the bed as he lied back down, she grabbed his hand one more time, then leaned down to kiss him.

"Get some sleep, okay?" she said, somewhat urgently. "I love you."

"I love you," he replied. Then Donna, requiring almost all of her strength and determination, left the room.

* * *

Over a bottle of wine with at the kitchen table, Andy noticed that Toby had gotten contemplatively silent. The kids were in bed and their conversation had somewhat run its course.

"When are you going back to New York?" she asked after a little while.

"You want me to go?" Toby asked defensively. "I thought I'd spend a little time with the kids. That was the idea. I cut their trip short and now you want me to leave-"

"Toby," Andy cut him off. "I don't want you to go."

"Then why bring it up?"

Andy paused and considered her words. "I'm always happy for you to spend time with them. But that's not why you're here."

"Of course that's why I'm here," Toby protested.

"No, it's not," said Andy. "They were in New York with you; you came back down here and cut their trip short because of Josh. Have you even spoken to him?"

"He didn't pick up when I called," said Toby.

"Did you try again?" Andy asked.

"Andy," said Toby, a bit exasperated. "He's not interested in talking to me. Leave it alone. I'm respecting his space the way I hope he would respect mine."

"I won't," said Andy firmly. "I won't do it because I don't agree with you. You're making a mistake and I don't want you to have to live with something like this."

"What do you want me to do?" Toby asked. "He's having surgery tomorrow; if you're so damn sure I've been wrong about this, it's a little late to do anything about it, isn't it?"

"It's only about a forty minute drive to Johns Hopkins from here," said Andy. "If you leave early enough, you could see him tomorrow."

"And insert myself there? With his family?" said Toby skeptically. "I don't belong there Andy."

"You do," she said quietly. "Please, just think about it."

Toby said nothing as he downed the last sip of wine from his glass. Then, he slowly stood up. "I'm going to go check on the kids then call it a night."

"Toby-"

"Goodnight, Andy."

* * *

Early the next morning, Josh's hospital room was crowded with people who loved him. As the actual moment crept closer, he struggled to keep control over the growing fear he felt rising inside of him. But as he glanced around at the faces of his family, he felt a little braver. Donna was holding his left hand; CJ was there, as were Jed and Abbey Bartlet, accompanied at a respectful distance by several Secret Service agents. It was barely seven in the morning, but both President Santos and Sam had called him to wish him well. Rachel stood back in the corner, talking quietly to a rabbi who had come from the hospital's chaplaincy service and said a prayer with them; Josh initially asked for that for his mother's sake, but found he did get some genuine comfort from it.

When a nurse came into the crowded room, accompanied by a hospital administrator and several CNAs, Donna squeezed Josh's hand very tightly. The nurse spoke first.

"It's time to go down to pre-op now," she said. "Mr. Lyman, it's probably best if you take off any jewelry now before we go. Anything metal: rings, religious medals, mid-life crisis body piercings, it's all gotta come off."

Josh smiled indulgently at her joke about body piercings, then nodded soberly and gently pulled his hand out of Donna's grasp. He carefully took his wedding ring off and placed it in her hand. "Hold onto that for me, okay?" he said quietly. She unclasped the necklace she was wearing and slid the ring onto the chain; she liked the feeling that it sat near her heart when she closed the necklace up again.

"Just for a little while," she said. Josh nodded.

"I want it back as soon as I can get it," he replied.

"We have a private waiting room set up for you all downstairs," began the administrator. While Hopkins was among the country's most prominent and premiere hospitals, it just wasn't every day that the group of family and friends waiting on a surgical patient included a former president. "When he's finished being prepped, he can have one visitor for a few minutes in pre-op before they take him into the OR."

Everyone in the room exchanged nervous glances at each other; it was unspoken, but they took the administrator to be saying that it was time to say their goodbyes. Finally it as Josh himself who broke the silence.

"Alright, let's get this over with," he said, clearing his throat. He took a deep breath, hoping that his voice wouldn't cut out on him as he spoke. "I love you all and it means the world to me that you're here with me now."

"And we'll all be here when you wake up," said Abbey, with the trace of a lump in her throat. She gently put a hand on her husband's shoulder as he stepped closer to Josh's bed.

"You fight like hell son, okay?" said Jed. He reached for Josh's free hand and gave it a quick, encouraging squeeze. "Promise me that?" Josh smiled weakly.

"Of course, sir," he replied. The Bartlets filed out of the room; he moved slowly with his cane.

CJ stepped up next. "Danny and Emily send their love," she said. "In a couple of months, I expect you to come out to California and see us; I'm sick of always being the one to take the flight, so you get well and return the favor, got it?"

"You know the convention is in California," said Josh with a smile.

"As if you'll even remember we exist during the convention," CJ teased back, rolling her eyes slightly. She took a deep breath.

"It's ok, CJ," he said, gesturing slightly for her to come closer to him. CJ leaned down over the bed and he sat up slightly, just enough to kiss her on the cheek. After he did, rather than pull his face away, he whispered quietly in her ear, "Be there for her. Please."

CJ couldn't speak, she knew she would start bawling if she tried, so she nodded.

"Do that for me, okay?" Josh whispered again. CJ nodded again and squeezed his hand hard before clearing the room. It was now just Donna and Rachel.

"I'm going to come wait with you in pre-op as soon as they'll let me," said Donna. She leaned over and kissed him tenderly. Her thoughts raced back five years, to the Army hospital in Germany; having Josh with her in the last moments before going into surgery had helped her feel so much less afraid and she hoped that now her presence could do the same for him. Rachel came and stood on the other side of the bed, then took his other hand.

"I love you, Joshua," she said, holding her composure admirably. "I just need for you to know that. I love you."

"I love you, Mom," Josh replied.

At that moment, Donna and Rachel were both politely but firmly ushered out of the room and a few moments later, Josh was being wheeled down the hallway.

The group had been sitting anxiously in the private waiting room for nearly forty minutes before a resident in scrubs came and informed Donna that she could come and see Josh again for a few minutes. Everyone watched her anxiously as she stood and very quickly made her way out the door.

CJ was sitting next to Rachel. "You're sure you don't want to go?" she asked her. "They might allow a second person if we asked."

Rachel calmly shook her head. "It's better he doesn't see me again," she said quietly. "I don't know if I could handle it, and it won't help him if I fall apart in front of him. I have to imagine that he's so afraid right now and I couldn't forgive myself if I did anything to make that worse."

CJ nodded soberly. "Donna will be strong for him," she said, reassuringly. Inwardly, she thought about what Josh had said to her and her implicit promise to look out for Donna, no matter what happened; she would treat that like a sacred vow.

"I'm going to go the chapel," announced Jed, as he hoisted himself into a standing position. Instinctively, CJ and Rachel stood, then awkwardly sat back down when he gave them odd looks. "I want to say a rosary."

"Can't you do that here?" Abbey asked, with a bit of frustration in her tone.

"I can, but I want to go to the chapel," he said. He was clearly restless and he strode out and walked down the hall accompanied by multiple agents.

"What was that about?" CJ asked Abbey, who looked very annoyed.

"He's going outside to smoke," she said. "I'm not sure what's more irritating: that he's doing it or that he thinks I don't know."

* * *

The former president knew it was absurd to be secretive about his smoking, especially from his wife, but he could only stand to be lectured on it so much. And right now, he really needed a cigarette. Outside in the cool morning air, he relished the instant calm that the nicotine delivered. He supposed that he would probably need to invent reasons to leave the room many times throughout the day; until he knew that Josh as going to be alright, he wouldn't be able to relax.

When he finished his cigarette, his agents cleared a path through the main lobby of the hospital; it was still early in the morning, but it as beginning to get a bit busy. The agents were eager for the former president to move as quickly to the elevator as possible, and certainly not to stop and speak with anyone.

But something caught Jed Bartlet's attention. There was a man at the information desk, anxiously and urgently demanding information from a bewildered clerk.

"Please, just page them or something! They'll know me! He's my friend and I have to see him! God, please don't let me be too late!" The voice was familiar.

"Sir, we need to keep moving," instructed the lead agent. Jed practically ignored him as he took a step closer to the desk. The frantic man suddenly stopped mid-sentence when he noticed Jed.

"Toby?"

* * *

The pre-op hallway was bustling with medical staff; Josh was now fully prepared for surgery. His chest was exposed and had been cleaned with iodine, and the bit of hair he had on his chest shaved off. His hair was pulled back under a surgical hair-net and he now had an IV in his arm, beginning to deliver him a mild sedative to help him relax before the real cocktail of general anesthesia drugs could be given in the OR.

When they let Donna in, she grabbed his hand immediately; his grip was weak as he was already feeling the effects of the sedative, but he was still fairly alert. He smiled at her.

"We don't have a lot of time," he said, slightly slurring his words. But she followed him, leaning in close so she could hear. "My life has been so much better, so much happier and so much fuller than it ever had any business being, because you came to New Hampshire, Donnatella. Thank you."

Donna felt the tears well in her eyes. "Mine too," she said, almost at a whisper. They didn't speak again; she just held his hand and listened to the slightly labored sound of his breathing until the resident and a group of surgical techs in scrubs appeared.

"They're ready for you, Mr. Lyman," said the resident. Donna squeezed his hand so hard, she worried that she might have hurt him. She was determined to keep it together.

"Do I have to leave him now?" she asked sheepishly.

"You can walk with us to the outer door to the OR," said the resident. The techs worked in quick unison, unlocking the wheels on the bed and starting out the door. Donna anxiously kept up, refusing to let go of his hand.

In the hallway, she didn't see a nurse escorting an increasingly anxious and very disheveled Toby Ziegler towards the room Josh had just left. It was a very short walk the OR and soon she was finally being separated from him.

"Joshua Lyman, I love you so much," she said, loudly and frantically as he was wheeled past her and their hands were forced apart. When she was faced with a closed door, she took a deep, ragged breath and then completely lost all of her composure. She burst into loud, undignified tears and started practically hyperventilating.

Soon a pair of arms were around Donna's shoulders, trying gently to soothe her, but she just cried harder and harder. She looked up and saw Toby, who himself looked shocked and distressed.

"Oh, God," he muttered to himself. "I'm too late."

"You came," said Donna through her tears. She re-positioned herself to embrace Toby and they hugged each other tightly.

"I'm too late," Toby whispered again, almost inaudibly. Donna tried to compose herself, but failed miserably. The nurse who had tried in vain to get Toby in to see Josh ushered them out of the busy hallway. Donna was practically shaking.

"I'm sorry," she said, over and over, but the tears just kept coming.

"It's okay," said the nurse. Toby kept his arm protectively around her, trying hard to repress his own guilt and distress because she needed him to be strong. "We're going to get you back to your waiting room. You'll get your updates there, okay?" Donna nodded.

When they were almost at the waiting room, Donna stopped abruptly. "I'm gonna be sick," she said. Toby looked at her face, and saw that it was incredibly pale. The nurse was quick on her feet though; she grabbed a nearby trash can and held it up just in time for Donna to vomit into it, while Toby held her hair back.

 **Thanks for reading!**


	15. Chapter 15

**Hi everyone! I'm so sorry for the very long delay, but I hope this chapter ends up being worth it. It was really challenging to write. I had a concept in mind that really wasn't working, no matter how many versions or adjustments I made to it (it was a little discouraging, because I think some individual bits of what I wrote for it were kind of good). So without further ado, here in this chapter, we'll find out how his surgery goes. I hope you like it. thanks as always for the comments, and I promise to try and be a little quicker with the next chapter!**

Rachel had brought a book with her. It wasn't anything terribly interesting, just a paperback mystery she bought at the airport. As it sat, unopened, in her lap, it almost seemed to be mocking her. How ridiculous had she been, to think her mind would allow her the respite of getting lost in a story as she sat in the waiting room. She glanced at Toby Ziegler, sitting across from her and looking very on-edge. She didn't know him very well, but she knew that his friendship was important to Josh.

"Toby," she said to him. That got his attention; she'd really never called him by his first name in any of their interactions.

"Mrs. Lyman," he replied, softly; he certainly wasn't about to call her by her first name.

"I'm glad you're here," she said. She leaned forward and put a hand on his shoulder. "I know it means a lot to Josh."

Toby felt a knot in his stomach; he hadn't yet said that he didn't actually get to see Josh. He sighed nervously as he realized all the eyes in the room were on him.

"I was too late," he said. "I got here too late; they had already taken him into OR when I got down to the pre-op area. I met Donna in the hall."

"Then you'll just have to see him later," said Rachel, matter-of-factly. "When he's settled in his room, we'll make sure you're one of the first to get up there, okay?"

"You and Donna-" he started, but Rachel cut him off.

"Of course Donna and I are going first!" she said. "But then you. It's time for whatever this is between you to come to an end, I think. You're both too old for nonsense like this and life is too short for it."

"Very well said, Mrs. Lyman," said CJ, keeping her eyes on Toby.

Donna was sitting silently by herself, as removed from the others as the small room would allow. Her eyes were dry now and her stomach was settled. They'd predicted the surgery could take up to eight or nine hours, much shorter than the fourteen he'd endured when he was shot, but it would still feel like an eternity to Donna. She thought about the surgeries she'd had, and the strange and destressing sensation of the anesthesia erasing hours in an instant. The bulk of day would pass unnoticed by Josh. He wouldn't even feel like he'd gone to sleep; one second he'd be breathing into a mask on the operating table, and the next he'd be waking up, with a tube down his throat and most likely in a lot of pain.

That was of course, if he woke up at all, a dark and fearful part of her brain reminded her. At that thought, she felt afraid that she might start to cry again, so she did her best to force it from her attention.

She glanced around the room; everyone was keeping a respectful distance from her. She glanced at the clock and saw that very little time had passed.

* * *

Helen and Annabeth had finished reviewing some changes to the schedule as the rest of the staff filed out. Helen looked at her watch and noted the time; Josh would have been in surgery about an hour now. She thought about Donna and her heart was aching for her. Annabeth looked like she was thinking something similar.

"You know," said Helen, somewhat unprompted. "For a time, in the beginning there, while I was still struggling with how I felt about this whole enterprise, I thought of Josh as the person who ruined my life. I was so excited to get my husband back from Congress, from politics and just have some nice normal life for our family where we'd be all together in Houston. Then Josh Lyman showed up at our house and put this idea in his head that blew all that up, and I think I really kind of hated him for it."

"But you don't hate him anymore," said Annabeth.

"No, not at all," Helen replied. "When I realized why he did it, that it was because he saw in Matt what I've always seen, that he believed in him the way I do, I started to understand him a little better."

"And it didn't make any sense to me at first what Donna was doing with him," Helen continued. "But then I started to really see them together, and how much they love each other; it was like they'd been together for years."

"When she joined the campaign," Annabeth began, tentatively with a twinge of sentimentality that bordered on sadness to her voice. "Leo told me he always assumed it was just a matter of time with those two. It makes me sad that he never saw it. He loved Josh like a son; it would have made him so happy to be there on his wedding day."

Helen smiled somberly. Even almost four years later, Leo was dearly missed.

"I'd like to think he's up there watching out for Josh today," said Helen, somewhat wistfully. She looked up and noticed that a single tear was running down Annabeth's face, causing her eye makeup to run slightly.

"I know he is," she replied with a smile.

* * *

In the West Wing, Sam had a pounding headache that persisted through an interminable meeting in the Oval Office with the President and several economic advisors. He chastised himself for his predicament a little; it as certainly undignified to, at his age, have this much difficulty soldiering on through a hangover at work. He was also struggling very hard to keep his mind in the meeting, but it was almost no use; he just couldn't stop thinking about Josh.

When the meeting did finally end, he glanced at his wrist watch, but realized that had nothing significant to tell him. He tried to keep reminding himself that for now, no news was good news; the surgery wasn't supposed to be over until almost four or five in the afternoon, and someone would probably only call before then if it was with bad news. But checking the time just reminded him harshly that there were long terrifying hours to go still.

"Alright, what's next?" asked the president when Ronna appeared in the doorway to the Oval. The previous meeting had run late.

"Secretary Vinick is in the Mural Room," she said.

"The Secretary is here?" Sam asked, a bit surprised, turning his head to the president. "The meeting was with Hartman though?" Sam had expected to meet with one of Vinick's deputies today. Truthfully, he was a little intimidated by the prospect of meeting with Vinick himself; it was no secret that the Secretary of State harbored some skepticism about his ability to do the job. Now today, when Sam was far from at his best, he dreaded the idea of the meeting even more.

"Change of plans," said the president. "He called a little while ago and said he was coming himself; he wanted to discuss some things." Sam nodded deferentially. "Send him in."

"Mr. President," said Arnold Vinick as he strolled into the Oval Office. "Sam," he added with a somewhat perfunctory but still polite nod.

"Mr. Secretary," said Sam, straightening his posture as Vinick took his seat.

"Let's start with the East Asia summit," began Santos. Sam reached into his briefcase for a file folder containing some of the most recent memos about the summit plans.

"I spoke to the South Korean ambassador yesterday," Sam began quickly, eager to demonstrate how on top of the summit he was. "She's anxious about the arms control agenda."

"Of course she is," said Vinick. "We have to reassure our allies, especially South Korea that we're committed to security. They have every reason to be skeptical when we're talking about engaging on any level with the North."

"I conferenced in one of the research leads at DoD," said Sam. "To go over the figures-"

"You did what?" snapped Vinick, closing his briefing binder in frustration. "Damnit, Sam, what were you thinking!?"

"That she needed to be reassured and a DoD researcher would have the information that might do that," Sam shot back defensively.

"Was no member of the State Department's massive team of non-proliferation and arms control experts good enough? Or better yet, why the hell don't you know those numbers cold by now? Well enough to get you through one conversation with the ambassador without having to punt to Defense?" Vinick was clearly very annoyed. President Santos gave him a little look and he stopped his tangent a bit.

"It's really better for State to be your first call on something like that," said Vinick, a little calmer. "I know Ambassador Koh; she's a talented diplomat and mostly a good pragmatist, but her instincts are very hawkish, especially about the North. Once you're the one to invoke military, she goes deep into her corner."

"Where are we then?" asked the President.

"I don't really think we're much worse off," said Sam. "DoD and State are very much on the same page, but Koh has to posture as much as she can about this. It's going to take time."

"Seoul can't look weak, but neither can the White House," said Vinick. "Josh Lyman had a good rapport with her; he knew how to talk to her."

"Josh Lyman isn't here," said Sam, a bit harshly. "Josh also isn't dead, so we don't exactly have to refer to him in past tense like that either. But I'm here instead of him and while I haven't spent the last four years building up a Chief of Staff level relationship with every ambassador in town, he trusted me to handle this, and that's what I'm doing."

Vinick nodded calmly; he was actually a little glad to see Sam assert himself a bit like that. Inwardly, he felt a little bad about having referred to Josh in that way; he hadn't really thought anything of it, except that Josh wasn't currently working on the summit. But of course, today, on the day of his surgery, he would be a touchy subject.

The president began asking some more questions about the arms control agenda for the summit and the meeting went on with a bit less friction. As they wrapped up their agenda, Vinick started straightening his materials into his briefcase then turned to the president.

"Mr. President," he began. "There was something I needed to discuss with you."

"Of course," said Santos. Sam listened intently.

"I think we've done a decent job navigating the political strangeness of my serving in your cabinet," began the secretary. "But the real test of that is coming up now."

"You've held off on endorsing Sullivan," said Sam. "We certainly appreciate that, Mr. Secretary."

"I made Ray Sullivan as a major party figure," said Vinick. "That I haven't publicly endorsed him or campaigned for him at all yet is conspicuous and frankly pretty insulting. I can't go on like that forever."

"Arnie," began Santos. "Do you want to endorse him? Campaign for him? What about all we've managed to accomplish in this administration?"

"It's not that simple, Mr. President," said Vinick. "Yes, I'm proud of the work we've done with foreign policy. But I think too many other things are moving in the wrong direction. I'm not going to get too into the weeds on that; we all understand each other pretty well where that's concerned."

Sam felt a little annoyed and impatient. "And what about when Sullivan can't be bothered to learn world leaders' names?" he asked, referring to the infamous debate gaffe. "You really think he's better suited to the job?"

"I called him that night and read him the riot act," Vinick replied. "It sure made it easier to keep quiet for longer. But he's not stupid. Eight years ago, when Rob Ritchie practically made stupid a brand, I thought it was the end of the Republican Party; Sullivan isn't like that. He hired a team of foriegn policy advisors the next day and started insisting the campaign schedule accommodate two hours of briefing daily to get him up to speed."

"Did he offer to keep you on as Secretary of State?" Sam asked cynically. Vinick looked genuinely annoyed and the president gave him a harsh glance. "Or maybe even the VP slot?"

"I don't have that coming," said Vinick, maintaining his composure. "I've been a good member of this administration. Any endorsement I do or don't give this election will reflect who I think should be commander-in-chief, not some sleazy quid-pro-quo."

"Why exactly are we discussing it today?" said Sam, trying to walk back his aggressive tone a bit, but not really succeeding.

"I want to think about how to approach the campaign homestretch as gracefully as possible," began the Secretary.

"What did you have in mind?" asked the president.

"I think it would be best if I announced at an appropriate time that I'll leave the State Department at the end of the term," said Vinick.

"Arnie," Santos began, but Vinick put a hand up slightly.

"I've given it a great deal of thought," he said. "I've decided to retire at the end of the term. You know that Berryhill was an anomaly; most Secretaries of State don't stay on through two terms. It will be neat and tidy; if you win reelection, you nominate someone new, and I'm sure that whoever that is will do very well building on what we've done the last four years. I can help you vet candidates if you want."

"Let's not rush into an announcement," said the president.

"I'm not going to change my mind," said Vinick. "But of course I won't do it now. No announcement until after the summit."

"Josh'll be back by then," said Sam, thinking aloud. The secretary and the president both looked up at him, as if that were a strange thing to remark on. But after a second, Vinick gave a slight understanding nod; he realized that Sam was doing a pretty good job of staying in the moment, but that his mind and his heart were really with his friend on the operating table right now.

"Did you get a chance to see him yesterday?" Vinick asked gently. Sam nodded. "How was he?"

"Brave," said Sam, very quietly. "I think he was terrified but he didn't let the side down."

"Sounds like him," said Santos. "I talked to him for a couple of minutes this morning; he was in good spirits."

Vinick took a sober, reflective breath. "Sometimes I think I hate that expression. 'Good Spirits'. People used to say that about my wife a lot at the end; I really came to hate it."

Santos was a little caught off guard by that response. He opened his mouth to reply once before thinking about it some more. Finally he just said, "Yeah, I think maybe I hate it too."

* * *

"Mrs. Moss-Lyman," called the resident sheepishly poking her head into the waiting room; she was in scrubs, and to Donna's abject horror, there was some visible blood on them.

Abbey noticed it and thought how, in her days as a practicing surgeon, she would have read the riot act to any resident who went to speak to a patient's family looking like that. She gave the young doctor an intense and stern glare as Donna slowly stood and stepped into the hall with her.

Donna could feel everyone's eyes following and tracking her as she gently closed the door behind her. She tried to tell herself that this was just an update, like she'd been told to expect regularly, but it was no use; she was fixated on the blood, the blood she knew to be her husband's.

"Is he alive?" she blurted out. She was instantly embarrassed by how quickly she'd lost her cool, but she couldn't help it. The resident smiled gently.

"He's doing fine," she said, sensing that Donna needed to hear that as soon as possible. "We've got his chest open and he's fully onto the heart and lung bypass machine. Some issues with bleeding, but-"

Donna didn't wait for her to finish. "Issues with bleeding?"

"There was arterial bleeding but it's under control now," explained the resident. "We gave him a unit of blood, and we have ten more typed for him on standby in the OR if he needs it later. His numbers stabilized after the transfusion and they're about to start the procedure now that they have clean access to the artery."

"So he's okay?" Donna said dully as she tried to piece together the bits of information. She wished she'd brought someone with her, because it felt so difficult to even comprehend the simplest descriptions of what was happening to Josh.

"So far, so good," said the resident.

"Thank you," said Donna softly. She went back into the waiting room and sat down by Abbey. Everyone was looking at her.

"He's doing okay," she explained. "He needed a transfusion but she said he's alright." She turned to Abbey. "Is it bad that he needed blood so soon?"

Abbey smiled gently. "It's not uncommon." Internally, she found the update a little troubling, but sharing that would benefit no one.

Jed caught the look in his wife's eye and decided it was time for another smoke.

* * *

CJ came back into the waiting room with lunch for everyone; surely some hospital staffer, eager to show hospitality to the former President would have happily gone for the food, but after a couple of hours of sitting, she needed something to do.

They had been given a couple more updates. The procedure was moving along well enough, but Josh was bleeding a lot more he should be. He'd already needed half the units of blood they'd had on hand for him in the OR. On hearing this, Toby practically started rolling up his sleeve on the spot to donate, but the resident assured them all that the hospital's blood bank as very well supplied.

Abbey explained to the rest of them that some surgical patients just bleed more than others, and that because of his particular issue, Josh would be at a higher risk of that complication. She tried to reassure them, especially Donna, that it didn't necessarily mean things were going badly.

As they picked at their food, Rachel, who had been holding it together fairly well, turned to Donna.

"Have you talked to your mother today?" she asked quietly. It bothered Rachel the way that Donna's parents seemed to determined to dislike her son, even several years into their marriage, but she thought it was important that Donna had a good relationship with them.

"She tried to call, but I didn't answer," Donna replied. "My dad and my sister both sent me texts this morning. I told them all I'd keep them updated."

"You know, if, if," Rachel started, suddenly locking onto a morose train of thought. "They would know to come right away, wouldn't they? They'd get on a plane right away if they had to, right? To be there for you? I know in your family, you would expect to have a few days, but..."

Donna swallowed a lump in her throat and reached over to squeeze Rachel's hand. "Yeah, they'd be here," she said quietly.

"None of that talk now," said Abbey, overhearing.

With that directive from the former first lady, the group resumed eating their food in relative quiet for a little while.

"How's Zoey doing?" CJ asked. Abbey and Jed couldn't help but smile.

"She's good," said Abbey. "Well, as good as she can be, I guess. She's into those last couple of weeks and ready to be done with it for sure. We all know what that was like."

Donna glanced around and noticed the sly, knowing nods and looks of recognition on all the other women in the room. She didn't want to engage with that at all now so she stood, somewhat abruptly, and made her way to the door.

"I'm going to get some air," she announced and left the room as quickly as she could manage. When she closed the door behind her, there was an uncomfortable silence in the room.

Rachel felt a little ashamed. "I know what that's about," she said quietly.

"Shit," said Abbey, realizing. "What was I thinking saying that?" She genuinely hadn't been thinking about it, but now that she was reminded, she felt ashamed. Months ago, they had spoken to her in the strictest confidence and she gave them the name of Carolyn Bonner, a Harvard trained colleague with an excellent "success record". She hadn't forgotten that. And she had reason to suspect that it wasn't going well when Donna abruptly backed out of going to Zoey's baby shower. But all that seemed to escape her attention when she was talking about Zoey's pregnancy. She felt annoyed with herself for managing to be so insensitive, especially on what was probably one of the most difficult days of Donna's life.

* * *

At the White House, Sam was finishing his lunch at his desk. He looked at the time again and felt frustrated by how slowly the day was crawling by. Donna had called him about an hour ago, but she didn't have much information for him, just that Josh was faring well enough in surgery, but needed multiple blood transfusions.

As he picked at the last of his salad, he felt his phone vibrate. He pulled it out and saw that Ainsley Hayes had sent him a text message.

 _Hi Sam. I'm thinking about Josh and saying a prayer for him today. I hope you're holding up alright. Let me know if you need to talk._

He smiled slightly, but put the phone back into his pocket without sending a response. A little while later, Amy appeared in his door.

"Yeah?" he said matter-of-factly, assuming she had something business-related to say.

"No, nothing," she said quickly. But she stepped further into his office and without being invited to, took a seat. She looked up at him. "I was just wondering if you'd heard anything. About how he's doing?"

Sam sight and shook his head slightly. "I talked to Donna a little while ago, but there's not much to know now. He's probably got another two or three hours."

"How are you doing?" she asked him. He looked at her.

"I've been better, Amy," he said candidly. "He's my best friend, and I'm scared of losing him."

Amy nodded somberly. Sensing that Sam didn't really want company, she stood up.

"Well, I'll leave you to finish your lunch," she said. "Do me a favor and let me know if you do hear anything, okay?"

"Yeah for sure," Sam agreed.

As she walked back down the hall toward her own office, Amy thought about Josh. She'd actually known him longer than most of the people in the White House; they were just undergrads when she dated his roommate. It was a strange turn of events that kept bringing them back into each other's orbits, but she cared about him a lot, even in the absence of any romantic connection between them. She had also come to like Donna a lot and her heart was aching for her today too.

"You gotta pull through this J," she muttered under her breath as she sat down at her desk.

* * *

Toby, diligently keeping track, realized that it had been quite a long time since the last update. Donna came back and there was no conversation for nearly an hour. His own stomach felt twisted in knots with anxiety. He was so afraid that he'd missed the chance to put things right with his friend.

When a different resident appeared in the door, Toby's eyes shot up to attention first.

"Folks," began the resident. Donna had asked for the progress updates to be shared with the whole group. When the surgery was actually complete, the surgeon would talk to her alone, but for now, everyone would get the updates. "I'm glad to report that we're in the home stretch."

"What does that mean?" Toby asked anxiously, beating Donna to precisely the same question.

"The repair is finished," said the resident. The entire room breathed a collective sigh of enormous relief. "We're starting the process of taking him off bypass. This can take a while, but he's doing well. Doc is very happy with the way the graft went; the blood flow to the lung should be very strong."

"What about the bleeding?" Donna asked. The resident's face got a bit more serious.

"It's been an issue, but it's under control," he explained. "They'll probably give him another unit tonight in ICU too. But I wouldn't worry as much about that now."

"How much longer until he's completely done?" Rachel asked.

"At least another couple of hours, to get him off bypass and close the chest," said the resident. "But he's through the worst of it."

"Thank you, Doctor," said Jed.

* * *

In his office, Charlie was working on some research for an appellate brief, but his mind was distracted. He tried to force it from his thoughts. But as it got nearer and nearer to the end of the day, he was running out of distractions.

Ten years ago, his world was so badly shaken by Rosslyn, but he was so immersed in the world of the White House that at the time, he really had no choice but to make himself carry on. He and Zoey broke up, the President and Josh recovered, and the surviving attacker was sent to prison. Then came the MS announcement with all its legal worries and the second campaign. And he was so young at the time. It seemed like a lifetime ago.

Today, it was on his mind.

He hated the thought of Josh continuing to suffer because of it. When that damn TV interview with LeRoy aired, Charlie refused to watch a second of it. Zoey went a step further and made a big point of leaving any room where either the interview or LeRoy himself were even being discussed. But Charlie got the idea that something like that might get to Josh in a subtle and pervasive sort of way.

On his desk was yet another letter. They were up to about once a month now and Charlie was beginning to consider a restraining order. But he reminded himself that the problem would just sort itself out eventually; LeRoy probably didn't have very long to live, according to the newspapers.

He stopped to look at the framed photos on his desk; they were mostly from his wedding. There was a candid shot of Zoey and Deanna in her bridesmaid dress clinking champagne glasses at the reception that Charlie really liked; the moment was joyful and light, and to someone with as serious a disposition as Charlie had, little things like that were worth remembering.

He felt his phone buzzing. It was his father-in-law calling him; Charlie was a little nervous to answer, afraid it might be bad news, but he knew he couldn't avoid it.

"Hi," he said cautiously as he answered.

"Charlie," began Jed, almost a little breathlessly. "We got an update a little over an hour ago that they're taking him off bypass."

"What does that mean?" Charlie asked. It suddenly occurred to Jed that not everyone had been in the room getting every update all day.

"He's almost done," the former president elaborated. "His heart and lungs seem strong, they said. He should be out of surgery completely in about ninety minutes."

"Oh, thank God," said Charlie.

"Yeah," Jed agreed. There was a bit of a pause. "Charlie," he began again.

"Hmmm?"

"We all survived," he replied thoughtfully. "It was close, but we did. We all survived."

"Yeah, I guess we did," said Charlie. "Okay."

"Okay," replied Jed. "I'll call you later. Abbey already called Zoey."

"Take care."

* * *

"Sam," said Margaret, popping her head into his office. Sam looked up from his briefing materials. Her face was very serious.

"Yeah," he said.

"Donna's on line one," she replied. Sam looked at the time; it was a little before five. He took a deep breath, nodded and grabbed the phone. Before he hit the button, he turned to Margaret, who looked anxious and eager to hear the news too.

"Margaret, stay here a minute," he said quietly. Relieved, she stepped into the office and took a seat. Sam hit the speaker-phone button.

"Donna," he said anxiously.

"Oh Sam!" said Donna, her voice filled with intense emotion. Sam bit his lower lip. "He's done!" she exclaimed. "I just talked to the surgeon. The graft and repair is complete, working well and his vitals are strong. They're taking him out of the OR and up to a private ICU room now."

"Oh, thank God!" said Sam, releasing a deep tension in his shoulders that he'd been carrying around all day and had almost stopped noticing. "Thank you, thank you," he muttered. He took a deep breath, and felt some tears in his eyes. It was a little embarrassing, but he didn't care. "When will you get to see him?"

"Soon," said Donna. "Not soon enough, but once he's settled in ICU, we can go in, two at a time."

"I'm going to come," said Sam, deciding that on the spot. "I can probably leave here around 6:30, I'll be there tonight. Do you need me to bring you anything?"

"You don't have to do that," said Donna.

"I want to," Sam insisted. "I want to."

"Okay," said Donna. "I don't need anything. If you come up, it'll just be good to see you."

"Donna," Sam started.

"Yeah?"

"Thank you," he whispered. He sniffled audibly, but he didn't care.

"I'll talk to you soon, Sam."

When he hung up the call, Sam went over to Margaret and embraced her in a tight hug.

"Go let the rest of senior staff know," Sam instructed. "I'm going to talk to the President." Margaret nodded and went off while Sam went to the Oval Office.

When he saw Sam come in the door, Matt stood anxiously. His left hand was in the pocket of his suit jacket, holding onto an old family heirloom rosary. He looked at Sam and saw the tears in his eyes and his heart sank. But before he could say a word, a big smile washed over Sam's face and he nodded slightly. He gave the rosary a quick squeeze then went to embrace Sam.

* * *

A little while later, Donna and Rachel were walking as fast as they could down a noisy ICU corridor toward Josh's room. When they arrived, the sight and sounds of monitors and machines were disturbing but they didn't care. A young nurse greeted them at the door.

"My name is Maria," she said in a soft voice. "I'm going to be monitoring him tonight. His vitals are weak but steady, all to be expected. I don't want you to be too alarmed by the sight of anything. He's gonna look pretty rough after the day he's had, but he's doing well."

"We saw him after he was shot ten years ago," said Donna. "It's okay." The nurse smiled sympathetically.

"He's not entirely lucid," Maria explained. "He's on some very heavy-duty pain medication, as well as a sedative to help him tolerate having that tube in his mouth. But he's conscious enough to know you're here."

"Thank you, dear," said Rachel. She and Donna wordlessly decided that they'd spent quite enough time talking and they wouldn't wait another second to see him. They went up to the bed.

"You did it, Honey," Donna whispered to him, bending down to kiss his forehead. His groggy eyes cracked open slightly and while he didn't really have enough control over his face to smile, a look of contentment and recognition flashed over his features. Rachel ran her fingers through his hair as tears started rolling down her face.

"My boy," she said quietly, then she reached across him to take Donna's hand.

* * *

About twenty minutes later, Toby appeared in the doorway. They were enforcing a strict, two visitors at a time rule, so either Donna or Rachel would have to leave.

"Toby," said Rachel. "I think Donna and I will both go get something to eat. You need some time with him, I think."

He nodded pensively. Josh's eyes were closed, but Donna suspected he wasn't quite asleep, so she quietly whispered to him that she'd be back and that Toby was here; he didn't give any indication that he'd heard. She kissed him again and left the room with Rachel after stopping to give Toby a hug.

Toby approached the bed with great apprehension. The sight of his friend was shocking and horrifying. There were two IV poles, one including a bag of blood. The machines monitoring his vital signs were loud and intrusive, and the tube running into his mouth to breathe for him was a disturbing image.

But Josh himself looked awful. His skin was pale and almost grey-hued. His chest was partly exposed, revealing a thick gauze bandage running almost the entire length of his thorax and about a half dozen little sensors attached to various points on his chest. Thankfully, the points of entry for the numerous chest tubes were discreetly covered by a hospital gown and blanket.

Toby was shocked to see that his hands were restrained to the bed; that bothered him deeply and he turned to the nurse for an explanation. Her face was patient and kind as she explained.

"He's pretty disoriented and probably scared," she said softly. "Sometimes post-op patients, without really realizing it or particularly meaning to can pull out their breathing tubes. That's just a safety precaution that they can probably stop even tomorrow morning." Toby nodded, understanding, but his eyes filled with tears, nonetheless.

"Is he in pain?" he asked, sheepishly. Maria smiled gently.

"We're doing the best we can," she said. "But he most likely is, at least a little bit." Toby nodded again, then slowly went up to the bed and took a seat next to Josh. The memories of finding his friend, bleeding and gasping for air on the steps of the Newseum were whirling around in his brain.

"Hey Josh," he said, very quietly. He felt immediately silly talking to someone who was in such a deep drug induced stupor that his eyes were closed. The tears started to roll down his face a little, and he cautiously grabbed Josh's hand. It was cold.

"Thanks for getting through this," he said. "Thank you for still being here. I don't really know what I would have done. I don't know what any of us would have done." He squeezed his friend's hand tightly, then relaxed it.

A second or two later, much to his surprise, he felt Josh weakly squeeze back.


	16. Chapter 16

**Back with a new chapter, a little quicker than I planned (for once!). Thank you so much for your amazing responses to the last chapter. I hope this one doesn't disappoint. It's a little on the shorter side, but I hope you like it. Enjoy!**

 ***just to reiterate my general note on medical accuracy: a lot of the things described here are loosely based on the experiences of people I know who've had open heart surgery. Not quite the same as what Josh has, but I figured similar enough, so hopefully it seems authentic enough. My main goal is that nothing strains plausibility so much as to really hurt the story.**

A day and half passed by like a strange and deeply unpleasant dream for Josh. The pain was intense; not only did his chest along the incision throb almost constantly, but the more time he lied there, the more it seemed that every muscle in his body was aching. He hardly moved but he was entirely exhausted.

His immediate recovery was behind schedule. By Thursday morning, he was still intubated and hadn't been able to sit up. When the intensivist evaluated him Wednesday afternoon and decided his lungs weren't strong enough to work on their own yet, Donna felt crazed with anxiety, but they assured her that it was too early to panic. Josh just lied there, struggling to pay attention as they talked about him, and continued to press the button they'd given him for his pain medicine.

By Wednesday morning, they determined that he was lucid enough to understand why the tube was there and he was calm enough not to panic about it, so they took the restraints off his wrists. For a moment or two, he was glad of that; it seemed a little less undignified, but on the whole he didn't care that much. But later that night, he was tossing and turning, likely from a disturbing dream he couldn't remember, and when he woke up, he panicked and tried to pull on the tube. A nurse grabbed his hands before he could do any damage, and in his very weakened state, he was quite easy to overpower. So the restraints went back on for the night; he didn't care as long as they didn't take the button away.

People had been in and out visiting him almost constantly, mostly just sitting quietly at his bedside. Donna was there almost all the time. Josh had little idea of how much time had been passing, but he started to wonder how long she was going without any meaningful sleep. His mother was around a lot, but at her age, she didn't have the same stamina, so she would leave for longer chunks of time.

A strange sort of thing made a great deal of difference to Josh; he felt the most comforted and the least afraid when someone was touching him. Donna picked up on this almost immediately, and made sure that she was always holding his hand or touching his forehead or shoulder.

He couldn't really turn his head much to look around the room, but as his eyes adjusted, he could see a little bit of what was going on around him. A corner of the room was beginning to fill up with cards and flowers, sent from all over Washington. Donna was adamant that they should be put where he could see them.

Josh had no idea what time or even what day it was, but a little before noon on Thursday, the intensivist came into the room accompanied by a gaggle of residents, a nurse and a tech. Donna stood up.

"Alright, Mr. Lyman," said the physician. "Here's something that should brighten your day

a little. You're finally getting rid of that tube."

Josh groaned incoherently in reply.

"That's what they all say," said the intensivist. The residents all laughed indulgently; the nurse rolled his eyes. Donna smiled widely at Josh, then stepped out of the way as the medical staff approached him. A resident started disconnecting Josh from the machine and the tech raised the back of the bed so that he was sitting up. He winced as the slightly adhesive surface keeping the tube in place was peeled slowly away from his skin where a slight bit of stubble had started to grow. The tech removed the restraints from his wrists and the nurse handed him a firm pillow and helped him grip it close to his chest.

"Now, I need you to relax as much as possible, Mr. Lyman," instructed the physician. Since the actual respirator was disconnected, the tube immediately began to feel much more intrusive to Josh than even it had before; he had to struggle not to panic. "When I count to three, I need you to try to cough slightly. I'll pull gently and it's hopefully going to come out in one smooth motion, but if it doesn't, it's really important that you don't panic; any tightening or gagging that you do might actually make it harder to get out. It's going to hurt a lot to cough because you have a broken sternum, so you're going to need to squeeze that against your chest; it'll help. You ready?"

Josh nodded anxiously.

"Okay, one, two," he definitely started pulling on "two", Josh was convinced. "Three." Josh, with all the strength he could muster, made a deep coughing motion. His chest exploded with pain; bracing against the pillow helped slightly, but it hurt like hell. The sensation of the tube coming up through his throat was very disconcerting; it was so much longer than he realized. But the doctor was very good and, true to his word, it came out smoothly. Once it was entirely out of his mouth, Josh started hacking and coughing painfully, bringing up a lot of thick mucus. If he hadn't been so distracted by the pain, he would have found it disgusting.

One of the residents stuck a suction tube into his mouth. It was slightly uncomfortable, but it was a relief to feel it cleaning the excess saliva out. When it was pulled away, the nurse slid a clear oxygen mask over his face.

"We'll just leave that there a second while you catch your breath," instructed the doctor. Donna was standing back but looking on with a strange combination of worry and relief on her face. Josh coughed a little more, but soon was able to take small, controlled breaths. The next thing he noticed was how sore his throat felt and how uncomfortably dry his mouth was. After a look from the intensivist, all the other medical staff stepped back and gave Josh some more room.

He could breathe.

The mask gave him a gentle flow of supplemental oxygen, but he was breathing. For the first time since waking up from surgery, he thought about what it meant to feel like he was alive. Maybe he hadn't felt that way yet, but now there was no question. He was alive. He could breathe. The thought almost started to overwhelm him; he felt really embarrassed by it, but he started to feel tears forming behind his eyes.

He was alive.

Donna saw the look in his eyes and felt overcome with emotion. Now that the doctors weren't working on him, she came right back to his side and grabbed his hand. There were tears in her eyes too.

"D-," he tried to say her name, but his throat wouldn't allow him to generate any sound. The effort made him cough a little more.

"Shhhh," she replied, wincing as she saw the pain on his face when coughed again.

"Don't try to talk yet," said the doctor. "Your throat won't be ready for that." He turned to the tech. "Let's get him some water."

A minute later, the tech returned with a paper cup of cool, but decidedly not cold, water. Donna took it from her and held it up to Josh's lips as he pulled the mask down. He was very eager to drink.

"Not too much," said the nurse cautiously. Josh felt a little self-conscious as he glanced around and realized that about six people, not including Donna, were attentively watching him try to sip water out of a cup. But he was so thirsty. Donna only let him take a very little bit; it was very soothing and he wanted more. After a short break, when the doctor gave her a nod, she brought the cup back to him and let him sip more.

It almost slipped by Josh's attention that he was breathing on his own, without any machine delivered oxygen for the first time in nearly two weeks. With the mask pulled aside, he savored the uninterrupted feeling of air flowing into his nose. It was a strange thing to value, but he did. He thought about how used to the cannula he'd become, but now that it was gone, he wondered how he'd been able to tolerate it for so long. Somehow, lying there, weak and still in pain, he felt empowered.

Seeing that he didn't really need it, the nurse got the mask out of his way. The doctor nodded approvingly then turned to the nurse. "Alright, see how he does with the water; if he tolerates it well enough, give him juice in about an hour, then maybe soup and jell-o later today. He hasn't eaten anything since Monday night, so let's take it easy on his stomach. Keep the back of the bed up like this so he's somewhat sitting for a little while, then I want him up in a chair soon, say in about two hours. Grab an OT aide to help you if he has a really bad time standing, but he's gotta get out of bed this afternoon."

When the staff all filed out of the room and Donna and Josh were alone together, he smiled warmly at her.

"It's over?" he tried very hard to whisper; he couldn't generate much sound, but she was able to understand.

"Yeah, it's over," she said with a smile. It wasn't really over, she thought; he still had a lot of difficulty and pain ahead of him over the long process of recovery. But the surgery was over and that was huge.

He tried to speak again, but his throat was too sore and dry. Instead he gestured for the water again. Donna brought it to his lips. There probably was no reason for her to do that, she realized; his hands and arms were probably steady enough to hold the cup himself. But she did it anyway.

Josh took a long, eager drink this time. The cup was now almost empty. But to his surprise, now his stomach felt full from what couldn't have been mor than about four or five ounces of plain water. No longer encumbered by the respirator, he glanced around the room some more. He was amazed by all the cards and flowers in what really wasn't that large of a room.

"Those people," he started, in a very weak and small voice. Donna seemed a little confused, so he pointed roughly at the corner of the room. "Those people all know I'm not dead, right?" he finished his thought and cracked a sly smile. It delighted Donna to see him smile.

"Wouldn't they have sent me the flowers in that case?" she replied. He laughed a little, but his laughter was quickly replaced by a wince of pain. Donna cringed a little and Josh pressed the button repeatedly.

"It only works the first time, remember?" said Donna. Josh smiled, but still kept hitting the button. Eventually, a fresh dose of the medication came through the IV and he felt a warm, calming sensation. With that feeling combined with his newly full stomach, his eyelids got heavy. Donna kissed him on the forehead. "You just take it easy. I'm going to step out and make some calls. I love you."

"Love you," Josh mumbled as he fell into a light sleep.

* * *

Toby had spent a lot more time at the hospital than he planned on. There was something about Toby's temperament that would never quite allow him to trust the feeling of relief; of course he'd felt great relief that Josh survived the surgery, but Toby knew he wasn't out of the woods yet. When Josh wasn't doing well the day after surgery, he started to worry deeply. Abbey Bartlet had mentioned that the longer Josh was intubated, the more likely it was that he could experience complications and Toby took that deeply to heart.

He would go in and sit with Josh for stretches of time. From the second day, the nursing staff was a lot less strict about the number of people allowed in the room, so Toby could stay for long periods of time, even when Rachel, and especially Donna could hardly stand to leave him for even a minute. Through these long hours, it was clear that his friend was in a lot of pain and increasingly distressed by the atmosphere of the intensive care unit. It was hard for Toby to watch, but he stayed around. CJ did too. Sam had come twice, but it was hard for him to carve time away from the White House; everyone knew that was so hard for him, but they reassured him that Josh would want him to focus on the job.

A little later that Thursday afternoon, Josh was-with a lot of help-sitting up in a chair; it was one of those seemingly trivial milestones that all the doctors stressed was very important. Though he was no longer intubated, he was still connected to several machines and medical apparatuses, making it a complicated business for him to move even the couple of feet from the bed to the chair. But, there he was, sitting up and talking quietly to his mother when Toby appeared in the doorway.

Toby let out a small but audible sigh of relief to see Josh. Truly, he still looked awful, but he looked alive; how cynically he had reframed his standards of what seemed good. Josh cracked a weak smile at him.

"Mom, could you give us a minute?" he said to Rachel, in a very soft and weak voice. Rachel smiled; she knew he needed to talk to Toby and she was glad to give him the space to do it.

"Of course," she said, standing and freeing up the chair she'd been sitting in. Before she left, she stopped and kissed Josh on the forehead. "I'm so happy to hear your voice, you have no idea," she whispered to him.

When she was clear of the room, Toby pensively made his way inside and took the seat Rachel had vacated. He really took in the sight of Josh.

"You look good," he said, not meeting Josh's eye. Josh let out some sound slightly resembling a laugh.

"You're a shit liar, you know that?" he replied.

Toby smiled sadly.

"I don't really remember," said Josh. Toby had to lean a little closer to even hear him. "But I think you were with me a little bit the first night, right? Or did I like dream or hallucinate that? I'm genuinely not very sure, which is a pretty lousy feeling."

"I was here," said Toby quickly; he was far less concerned with getting any credit for being there as he was with trying to reassure Josh that he wasn't losing his mind. "For a little while."

Josh just nodded, contemplatively.

"Josh," Toby began after a pause. Josh looked up at him. "I'm sorry."

Josh opened his mouth, but couldn't think of what he wanted to say, so he just stared off to the side, past Toby, for a second.

"I'm sorry about the way I talked to you," he elaborated. "You're in a bad spot right now, and you needed a friend, not smart-ass advice you didn't ask for."

Josh tried again to speak, but it took him a little while to find the words. He wanted to zing Toby with sharp retort, he wanted to express what he'd been so sure was righteous anger, but as he ran through every such thing he might say, he found his heart wasn't quite in any of it. After a fairly lengthy pause, he closed his eyes for second, then relaxed his face a little and finally replied.

"It was the same smart-ass advice I probably would have given someone else in my shoes," Josh admitted. "I'm just," he started, then stumbled a bit on his words. "I'm just really glad you're here."

"Yeah, me too," said Toby.

"Toby, you know I don't really remember much," Josh started, somewhat abruptly. Toby looked up at him. "About the shooting itself. I have pieces of it, some came back a little when I started going to therapy, but there are a lot of holes. Sometimes I wonder if I'd be happier to forget all of it, but I don't know. I think remembering some of it makes me feel like I have more control; that's kind of a PTSD thing I guess."

Toby swallowed a little lump in his throat; he knew Josh had PTSD, but it was always a little painful to hear it overtly acknowledged like that.

"One thing I do remember," Josh continued. "One thing I've always remembered, almost from the beginning, was how scared I was sitting at the top of those steps."

Toby took a deep fortifying breath; he wasn't sure if he could handle where this conversation was going.

"I was sure I was dying," said Josh. "I felt that blood pouring out of me and my vision started failing and it was hard to breathe. I _was_ dying, Toby. And all I kept thinking, the thing I fixated on, was how scared I was at the idea that I was going to die alone."

Toby saw the scene in his mind, vividly. And he felt the desperation freshly again. He looked at Josh and he could see in his eyes that his friend was back in that terrible scene too. Josh's eyes were glassy from the meds he was on, but Toby thought he also saw the formation of a tear in them.

"Then you found me," said Josh. "I remember that. I remember seeing you and thinking I'd never been happier to see anyone in my life. I started to fall and you caught me." He made intense, locking eye contact with Toby and swallowed a lump in his throat. Before he could speak again, he had to take a sip of water to soothe his taxed and aching throat. "And you stayed with me. You stayed with me, and I wasn't afraid anymore. I felt safe."

"Josh-" Toby tried to interject, but Josh slightly put his hand up to stop him; he needed to finish what he had to say.

"I still thought I was gonna die," he clarified. "But I felt safe because I knew I wouldn't be alone. You almost certainly saved my life; they told me, repeatedly, afterward how close I was. If you hadn't found me when you did, if it had taken even a couple minutes longer for someone to, that probably would have been the difference. But more than that-what I understood, even right in the moment-you saved me from dying alone. That's what would have happened to me, and the thought of that is somehow still enough to terrify me all these years later." He swallowed another lump in his throat.

"Toby, I don't think I ever told you what that meant to me, and I'm ashamed of that. I look back at these years, and some of the stupid things we've faught about or fallen out over, and I'm ashamed. You were there for me at the single moment of my life when I was in the greatest need, and I was a fool if I ever lost sight of my gratitude for that."

Toby sat quietly for a moment and thought about what Josh had said to him. He took a deep breath and cleared his throat, thinking he should say something. But he was at a genuine loss for words. Instead, he stood and did something quite unusual for him. Being extremely careful not to accidentally hurt him, he embraced Josh. Josh leaned in and hugged him back as much as the lines and wires and tubes plus the pain in his chest would allow.

* * *

The next morning marked the first time Josh thought he noticed any real improvement in the way he felt. The pain was still significant especially when he coughed, but it was much more tolerable. His chest tubes were finally taken out, which gave him more freedom of movement. He had eaten some light foods, which made him feel more normal, and three times now, a physical therapist had appeared in his room with a walker to get him out of bed and moving.

The walks were difficult and draining. In the longest effort, he had only made it about thirty feet down the hallway before he fell back into the wheelchair, utterly exhausted. But the physical therapist assured him that was normal, and that any progress, even very slow progress was good.

Sam was going to come up that evening after work, assuming the White House schedule didn't slide too far behind and Josh was quite looking forward to that. The president was going to visit on Sunday, but Sam wanted to come on his own as much as he could. This would be his first time seeing Josh since he was extubated and could speak to anyone.

He found himself alone in his room around lunchtime for the first time since the surgery that he'd been aware of. His mother and Donna went to have lunch at a cafe, CJ was with Danny and Emily at their condo and Toby was taking his kids to the zoo while Andy was at campaign events. Life was beginning to get back to normal, Josh thought; that idea felt really good.

Sitting there, something occurred to him.

Donna had refused to give him back his cell phone yet; she insisted he could live without up-to-the-minute connectivity at least until he was out of intensive care. But there was a regular phone with a cord in his room; he reached for it and dialed the White House switchboard. It was a little odd to have to navigate through a menu of extensions; his own personal phone was recognized by the system and his calls were connected much faster than this. But eventually he got through to Margaret.

"Josh!" she answered enthusiastically.

"Hey Margaret," he replied, still a little hoarse from the tube.

"You sound awful," she said bluntly.

"Yeah, I'm not sure if anyone told you, but I actually had pretty major surgery a couple days ago," he replied dryly. Before she could respond, he got right to his purpose. "Listen, I need a favor."

"Not if it involves work," Margartet insisted. "I'm not about to cross Donna, even for you."

"No, it's not really a work thing," said Josh. "Do you still have that envelope I gave you? The one for Sam?"

"Yeah," said Maragret. "I guess I can get rid of that now," she added, somewhat uncomfortably, recalling what the purpose of it was.

"No, no, don't!" said Josh, somewhat urgently. "Don't. I want you to give it to Sam."

"But I thought-"

"Just tell him not to open it until he gets here tonight," Josh elaborated. "I'll explain it to him."

"Okay."

"Thanks Margaret," Josh replied.

"Josh," said Margaret.

"Yeah?"

"It's really good to talk to you."

"You too, Margaret."

* * *

Sam was anxious as he rode the elevator up to the intensive care unit. It had been a long day and he left the White House almost ninety minutes later than he meant to; he hoped they would still allow him to visit.

The envelope in his pocket felt heavy. When Margaret gave it to him and told him what it was, the air instantaneously escaped his chest. Josh had written him a letter in case he died; Sam couldn't help but think he'd have been much happier not to know that. But Josh wanted to talk to him about it, so he brought it with him, dutifully. Margaret didn't have to tell him not to open it; he didn't want to read it.

When the elevator stopped, he walked up to the central nursing station.

"Sir, I'm sorry but visiting at this hour is really only for immediate family," said a charge nurse who recognized him from earlier. Sam took a deep breath and looked at her, somewhat desperately.

"I know," he said. "I'm sorry; I tried to get here sooner." He cleared his throat, trying to think of an elegant and smooth way to insist on what he wanted. Instead he just landed on, "Can I please see him?"

The nurse took pity on him and nodded. "Don't stay too long. If anyone asks, he's your brother."

"He is," Sam muttered, slightly under his breath as he walked down the hallway to Josh's room. By this time, Josh was back in bed, but with the head of the bed raised so he could talk. He was alone; Donna and Rachel had returned to their hotel for the night.

"Hey," he said to Sam with a smile. Immediately on seeing Josh, Sam felt so much better. There he was, awake, talking and smiling. It was an enormous relief. Sam pulled a chair up next to the bed and sat down by him. "I'm sorry I'm late," said Sam.

"Hmmm, and which high stakes federal policy meeting should you have skipped to beat the traffic?" Josh teased. "It's good to see you."

"You too," said Sam. "How are you feeling?"

"Truthfully a little better," said Josh. "That is to say, still like crap, but it's getting better."

Sam was a little troubled by the sound of Josh's voice; it sounded weak and sickly. But, he supposed, that was probably to be expected.

They talked for a little while, mostly about the White House. Sam was careful not to get too into the weeds on anything he thought Josh might stay up thinking about, but he managed to strike a balance. Josh loved every little detail he could get; it made him feel like himself again for a little while.

"I want to write something," Josh started, somewhat out of the blue. Sam looked up. "Like an op-ed kind of thing. I was hoping you might help me a little."

"What do you want to talk about?" Sam asked.

"This whole thing," said Josh, gesturing around the room. "I've been thinking about it. We talk about a lot of things in the abstract all the time, Sam. Guns, hate crimes, healthcare, even mental health. But its not abstract. After Rosslyn, those things could never be abstract to me again. I think I made a mistake in trying to pretend they could be. I want to tell my story. I know it's not fair that people would listen to mine and not someone else's, but I have things to say and I finally feel like I'm ready to say some of it."

"On the front page of the New York Times?" Sam asked, a little skeptically. Josh was fairly private about his personal life, even though he was a public figure.

"Yeah, I think so," he said. "Anyway, it's just an idea now. I guess I could at least wait until I'm on fewer drugs; I don't think I could write anything good if my life depended on it right now. But maybe in a few days or a week, I might start. You were always the writer; I want it to be my words, but I was hoping maybe you could read a draft and tell me what you think."

"Of course," said Sam without hesitation. "But just focus on getting well now. Don't worry about that until you're feeling better."

Josh nodded. After a brief pause, he cleared his throat.

"Sam," he started. Sam met his gaze. "LeRoy got to tell his story about Rosslyn. And you know what? Strangely enough, I don't even think I begrudge him that so much anymore. I just don't want his to be the only story people remember or even hear, especially as it gets further and further into the past. I'm ready for people to know mine."

Sam nodded. "Okay."

"Do you have that thing Margaret gave you?" Josh asked, after a short pause. Sam nodded soberly and pulled the folder up envelope from his pocket.

"How did you imagine people would feel about this?" Sam asked, almost harshly. "You know it would have killed Margaret to have to give me this and I have no idea how I could have handled reading it."

"I'm sorry," said Josh. "It might have been selfish of me. But there's something I needed you to know, even if I couldn't be there to to tell you. There's two things in that envelope; one is a single page and the other is a typed letter, couple pages long with a staple. Don't read the letter now or ever if you don't want to. But I wanted to you to see what's on the other paper."

"Josh, what is this?" Sam asked. Josh, maybe from the pain meds he wondered, seemed a little loopy.

"Do you like the job, Sam?" he asked abruptly, furthering Sam's suspicion.

"Yeah but-"

"I'm sorry to hear that, because I'm firing you in a year and a half, Sam," said Josh with an entirely straight face. Sam scoffed.

"What?"

"I want you to go back to California and for the Senate Seat in 2012," said Josh, completely serious.

"Josh-," Sam started. He was a little bemused; he'd spent the whole afternoon feeling so anxious about this conversation, and now it was turning out to be some crazy day-dreaming from his thoroughly drugged friend. He wasn't sure how the letter would fold in, but he figured that it somehow made sense to Josh. In any case, he wanted to be generous and cut him some slack for acting strangely, but he did find it a little annoying.

"It's a midterm year," said Josh. "You'll have all the support you need and I think you have a really good shot at it."

"I'm not running for office again," said Sam.

"Why not?"

"Because I did that once and it was so humiliatingly terrible that it actually kicked off a four year hiatus from professional politics, remember?" he said, a little sarcastically.

"It's not Orange County," said Josh. "Statewide, you can win."

"Where the hell is this coming from?" Sam asked.

Josh took a sip of water; he'd gotten a little worked up and almost tired himself out. When he finished drinking, he inhaled slowly. "The Senate is only step one."

"Step one?" Sam asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Take out that piece of paper from the envelope," said Josh. He looked at Sam with such intensity in his eyes that Sam couldn't resist feeling a little intrigued. He very carefully slid his finger to break the seal and saw the two distinct pieces. The stapled letter, he was extremely careful with, but couldn't bring himself to read; he left that in the envelope and removed a piece of yellow legal pad paper, folded into thirds.

"Obviously we'll get an actual graphic design person to make it not look so ugly," said Josh. "I just kinda doodled that."

Sam very slowly unfolded the page. On it was very crude mock-up of a campaign logo. The design was as poor as the drawing skills, but the words were clear enough: **Seaborn 2018.**

Sam just stared contemplatively at it for a little while.

"I explained it a little bit in the letter, but I'm really happy that I get to just talk to you about it," said Josh quietly as Sam stared at it.

"Josh," Sam started, but he trailed off, still just staring at it.

Just then, a nurse came into the room. The sudden intrusion snapped Sam out of his reverie.

"I'm sorry," began the nurse. "But he needs his dressing changed. And then I'm afraid you'll really need to leave sir. He needs to rest."

Josh was about to protest, but Sam gave him a look and he closed his mouth. Sam nodded at the nurse. There was so much for him to take in; he desperately wanted more time to talk with Josh, but he didn't want to do anything that might hinder his recovery in any way. So he stood and picked up his suit jacket, making sure he had both the envelope containing the letter and the yellow legal page.

"I'll come back tomorrow, Josh," he said. He reached down and gave Josh's hand a quick squeeze. "Goodnight," he said. Josh smiled warmly at him.


End file.
